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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

{POET  LA  UREA  TE) . 

©uwplelje  f^xUtion 

FROM  THE  AUTHOR’S  TEXT. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  CHURCH,  DIELMAN,  FREDERICKS,  FENN, 
MURPHY,  SCHELL,  TAYLOR,  AND  OTHER 
EMINENT  ARTISTS. 


NEW  YORK: 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  & CO. 

46  East  14th  Street. 


Copyright , 

By  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  & Co. 
1885. 


J.  S.  Cushing  & Co.,  Electrotypers,  Boston. 


Presswork  by  John  Wilson  and  Son,  University  Press,  Cambridge. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


DRAWN  AND  ENGRAVED  UNDER  THE  SUPERVISION  OF 
GEORGE  T.  ANDREW. 


Artist  Page 

Portrait  of  Tennyson,  from  a Photograph  by.  . .Mayall Frontispiece. 

“ She  said,  ‘ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead  ’ ” H.  Sandham 8 

The  Deserted  House Harry  Fenn 18 

“ Heard  a carol,  mournful,  holy, 

Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly  ” A.  Brennan 32 

“ In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined  ”.F.  S.  Church 60 

“ And  Dora  took  the  child  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat  and  sat  upon  a mound”.  ...  . .F.  Dielman 85 

“ Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the 

mother’s  breast” E.  H.  Garrett 110 

“ She  lying  on  her  couch  alone” W.  St.  John  Harper  115 

“ Bitterly  wept  I over  the  stone  ” W.  L.  Taylor 121 

“ The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay  ” H.  Sandham 125 

“ In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way” W.  St.  John  Harper  130 

“ Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0 sea! F.  B.  Schell 135 

“ And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a valley” J.  Francis  Murphy..  136 


IV 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Artist  Page 

The  Grandmother W.  St.  John  Harper  173 

The  Northern  Farmer Harry  Fenn 177 


“ and  Guinevere 

Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him  pass  ” . . . A.  Fredericks  .....  199 

“ He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet  ” A.  Fredericks 366 

“ She  rose  her  height  and  said  : 

We  give  you  welcome  ” W.  St.  John  Harper  390 

“ She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet”. . . W.  L.  Taylor 455 

“ There  often  as  he  watched  or  seemed  to  watch, 

So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused” Harry  Fenn 474 

“ Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones  ” Harry  Fenn 481 

“ All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail, 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town” E.  H.  Garrett 524 

“ Much  suspected  of  me 
Nothing  proven  can  be. 

Quoth  Elizabeth,  prisoner  ” F.  T.  Merrill 569 

“ I have  found  him,  I am  happy  ” F.  T.  Merrill 645 

“ he  saw 

His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her  face  ” W.  L.  Taylor 667 


Vignette  Titles,  by  Charles  Copeland. 

Miscellaneous  Poems 

Idyls  of  the  King 

The  Princess  and  Maud 

Enoch  Arden  and  In  Memoriam  

Queen  Mary  and  Harold 

The  Lover’s  Tale,  etc 

Additional  and  Discarded  Poems 


3 

197 

381 

463 

525 

647 

803 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Achilles  over  the  Trench  ......  713 

Additional,  Occasional  and  Discarded 

Poems 803 

Additional  Verses  to  “ God  Save  the 

Queen” 828 

Adeline 23 

Alexander.  (Early  Sonnets.)  ....  28 

All  Things  will  Die 4 

Amphion 118 

Anacreontics 823 

Arrival,  The.  (The  DajT  Dream.)  . . . 116 

“ Ask  me  no  more.”  (Princess.)  . . . 431 

As  through  the  land.  (Princess.)  . . . 390 

Audley  Court 87 

Aylmer’s  Field 140 

“ Babble  in  Bower.”  (Becket.)  . . . 777 

Ballad  of  Oriana,  The 20 

Ballads  and  other  Poems 674 

Battle  of  Brunanburh 711 

Becket 744 

Beggar  Maid,  The 130 

Blackbird,  The 66 

Boadicea 190 

Break,  break,  break 135 

Bridesmaid,  The.  (Early  Sonnets.)  . . 30 

Britons,  guard  your  own 825 

Brook,  The 136 

Buonaparte 29 

Burial  of  Love,  The 809 

Captain,  The 126 

Caress’d  or  Chidden.  (Early  Sonnets.)  . 29 

Character,  A 16 

Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade  ....  829 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 170 

Choric  Song.  (The  Lotos  Eaters.)  . . 59 

Chorus  in  an  unpublished  drama  . . . 813 

Circumstance 21 

City  Child,  The 185 

Claribel 3 

Columbus 701 

Come  down,  O maid.  (Princess.)  . . . 435 


PAGE 


Coming  of  Arthur,  The 198 

Come  into  the  garden.  (Maud.)  . . . 454 

Come  not  when  I am  dead 130 

Cup,  The 715 

Daisy,  The 181 

Day  Dream,  The 114 

Death  of  the  Old  Year,  The 67 

Dedication,  A 190 

Dedicatory  Poem  to  the  Princess  Alice  . 634 

Defence  of  Lucknow,  The 695 

De  Profundis  709 

Deserted  House,  The 18 

Despair 831 

Dirge,  A 19 

Dora 84 

Dream  of  Fair  Women,  A 61 

Dualisms 817 

Dying  Swan,  The 19 

Eagle,  The 130 

Early  Sonnets 28 

Early  Spring 834 

Edward  Gray 121 

Edwin  Morris 91 

Eleanore 25 

England  and  America  in  1782  ....  71 

English  Idyls 73 

English  War  Song 816 

Enoch  Arden 463 

Epic,  The 73 

Epilogue.  (Day  Dreams.) 118 

Experiments 190 

1865-1866  827 

Falcon,  The 732 

Farewell,  A 129 

Fatima 42 

First  Quarrel,  The 674 

Flower,  The 184 

Fragment,  A 823 

Frater  Ave  Atque  Vale 835 

Freedom 835 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Gardener’s  Daughter,  The 79 

Gareth  and  Lynette 208 

Geraint  and  Enid 235 

Godiva 113 

Golden  Year,  The 103 

Go  not  happy  day.  (Maud.) 450 

Goose,  The 72 

Grasshopper,  The  .........  812 

Grandmother,  The 173 

Guinevere 356 

Hands  all  Round 826 

Hapless  doom  of  woman.  (Queen  Mary.)  595 

Harold 604 

Hendesyllabics 192 

Hero  to  Leander 811 

Hesperides,  The 819 

Hexameters  and  Pentameters  ....  192 

Higher  Pantheism,  The 188 

Holy  Grail,  The 313 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior.  (Prin- 
cess.)   425 

How  and  the  Why,  The 808 

I come  from  haunts.  (The  Brook.)  . . 136 

Idyls  of  the  King 197 

If  I were  loved.  (Early  Sonnets.)  . . 30 

In  Memoriam 480 

In  the  Children’s  Hospital 692 

In  the  Garden  at  Swajnston 184 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 183 

Isabel  7 

Islet,  The 185 

It  is  the  Miller’s  Daughter 41 

Juvenilia 3 

Kate 821 

Kraken,  The 7 

Lady  Clare 124 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 53 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The 31 

Lancelot  and  Elaine  . 287 

Last  Tournament,  The 342 

Late,  late,  so  late.  (Guinevere.)  . . . 359 

L’Envoi.  (Day  Dream.) 117 

Leonine  Elegiacs 4 

Letters,  The 130 

Lilian 7 

Lines.  “ Here  often  when  a child.”  . .828 

Literary  Squabbles 186 

Locksley  Hall 107 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  The 127 

Lotos  Eaters,  The 58 

Lost  Hope 813 

Love 815 

Love  and  Death 20 


PAGE 

Love  and  Duty 101 

Love  and  Sorrow 814 

Love,  Pride  and  Forgetfulness  ....  813 
Love  that  hath  us.  (Miller’s  Daughter.)  . 42 

Lover’s  Tale,  The 647 

Love  thou  thy  Land 70 

Lucretius 160 

Madeline 11 

Margaret 24 

Mariana 8 

Mariana  in  the  South 9 

Maud 440 

May  Queen,  The 54 

Merlin  and  Vivien 268 

Mermaid,  The 22 

Merman,  The 22 

Midnight,  June  30,  1879  834 

Miller’s  Daughter,  The 39 

Milton.  (Alcaics.) 192 

Mine  be  the  strength.  (Early  Sonnets.)  28 

Minnie  and  Winnie 186 

Montenegro 710 

Morte  d’  Arthur 74 

Moral.  (Day  Dream.) 117 

Move  eastward,  happy  earth 130 

My  life  is  full  of  weary  days 27 

Mystic,  The 811 

National  Song 817 

New  Timon,  The 824 

No  More 822 

Northern  Cobbler,  The 679 

Note  to  Rosalind 821 

Northern  Farmer.  (Old  Style.)  . . . 177 

Northern  Farmer.  (New  Style.)  . . .179 

Nothing  will  die 3 

Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal.  (Prin- 
cess.)   435 

Ode  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Well- 
ington   165 

Ode  sung  at  Opening  of  International 

Exhibition 171 

Ode  to  memory.  Addressed  to . . 14 

O darling  room 822 

(Enone • 43 

Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights ...  68 
On  a mourner 68 

0 swallow,  swallow,  flying.  (Princess.)  406 

Our  enemies  have  fallen.  (Princess.)  . 425 

01  peovres 818 

Palace  of  Art,  The 48 

Passing  of  Arthur,  The 369 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre 330 

Princess,  The 3S1 

Poet,  The 16 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Poet’s  Mind,  The 17 

Poet’s  Song,  The 135 

Poland.  (Early  Sonnets.) 29 

Prefatory  Sonnet  to  the  “Nineteenth 

Century” 710 

Prologue.  (Day  Dream.) 114 

Queen  Mary 525 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights  . . 12 

Requiescat 184 

Revenge,  The  681 

Revival,  The.  (Day  Dream.)  ....  116 

Ringlet,  The 803 

Rizpah 676 

Rosalind 25 

Round  Table,  The 208 

Sailor  Boy,  The 184 

Sea  Dreams 155 

Sea  Fairies,  The 18 

Sir  Galahad 120 

Sir  John  Franklin 714 

Sir  John  Oldcastle 697 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere  . . 129 

Skipping  Rope,  The 824 

Sisters,  The 47 

Sisters,  The 684 

Sleeping  Beauty,  The.  (Day  Dreams.)  . 115 

Sleeping  Palace,  The.  (Day  Dreams.)  . 115 

Song: 

A spirit  haunts 15 

Every  day  hath  its  night 810 

Home  they  brought  him 804 

I’  the  glooming  light 810 

Lady  let  the  rolling  drums 8C4 

The  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock  . . 810 

The  Owl 11 

To  the  same 12 

The  winds  as  at  their  hour 7 

Who  can  say 821 

Sonnet : 

But  were  I loved 819 

Could  I outwear 814 

Check  every  outflash 824 

Me  my  own  fate 823 

O Beauty,  passing  beauty 819 

On  Cambridge  University 828 

On  hearing  of  the  Polish  Insurrection  . 822 

Shall  the  hag  Evil  die 815 

The  pallid  thunder-stricken  . . . .815 

There  are  three  things 828 

Though  night  hath  climbed  ....  815 

To  Wm.  Charles  Macready 825 

Spiteful  Letter,  The 186 

St.  Agnes’  Eve 120 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 94 

Stanzas.  “ What  time  I wasted.”  . . .825 


vii 


TAGE 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a Sensitive 


Mind  4 

Sweet  and  low.  (Princess.) 398 

Specimen  of  Translation  Homer’s  Iliad  . 192 

Talking  Oak,  The 97 

Tears,  idle  tears.  (Princess.)  ....  405 

Tears  of  Heaven,  The 814 

The  form,  the  form  alone.  (Early  Son- 
nets.)   30 

The  splendor  falls.  (Princess.)  . . . 404 

Third  of  February,  The  . . . . . .169 

Thy  voice  is  heard.  (Princess.)  . . . 414 

Timbuctoo 804 

Tithonus 106 

To , after  reading  a Life  and  Letters  134 

To , “ All  good  things” 818 

To , “ As  when  with  downcast  eyes  ” 28 

To Clearheaded  friend  ” ....  10 

To  — — , “ Sainted  Juliet” 809 

To , with  the  following  Poem  ...  48 

To  a Lady  sleeping 814 

To  Christopher  North 822 

To  Dante 714 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece  . . 135 

To  J.  M.  K 28 

To  J.  S 67 

To  Princess  Frederica 714 

To  the  Queen 1 

To  the  Queen 378 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 182 

To  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield  ....  710 

To  Victor  Hugo 711 

To  Virgil 830 

Two  Voices,  The 33 

Ulysses 104 

Victim,  The 186 

Village  Wife,  The 689 

Vision  of  Sin,  The 131 

Voice  and  the  Peak,  The 188 

Voyage,  The 128 

Voyage  of  Maeldune,  The 705 

Wages 188 

Walking  to  the  Mail 89 

Wan  sculptor,  weepest  thou.  (Early 

Sonnets.) 80 

War,  The 8?J 

Welcome  to  Alexandra 172 

Welcome  to  Marie  Alexandrovna  . . . 172 

What  does  little  birdie  say? 160 

Will 183 

Will  Waterproof’s  Lyrical  Monologue  . 122 
Window,  The 103 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho’  ill  at  ease  ...  69 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS  BY  TWO  BROTHERS. 


Ah ! yes,  the  lip 879 

All  joyous  in  the  realms 868 

Anacreontic 885 

And  ask  me  why 862 

Antony  to  Cleopatra 844 

Apollonius  Rliodius’s  Complaint  . . . 873 

A sister,  sweet  endearing  name  . . . .876 

Babylon 833 

Bard’s  Farewell,  The 872 

Battle-Field,  The 838 

Borne  on  light  wings 860 

Boyhood  . 851 

Cease,  railer,  cease ! 885 

Contrast,  A 881 

Deity,  The 865 

Dell  of  E , The 843 

Did  not  thy  roseate  lips 831 

Druid’s  Prophecies,  The 834 

Duke  of  Alva’s  Observation,  The  . . . 878 

Dying  Christian,  The 881 

Egypt  . . . . 833 

Epigram 872 

Epigram 881 

Epigram  on  a Musician 873 

Eulogium  on  Homer 876 

Exhortation  to  the  Greeks 893 

Exile’s  Harp,  The 810 

Expedition  of  Nadir  Shah 857 

Fall  of  Jerusalem,  The 874 

Friendship 861 

Glance,  A 883 

God’s  Denunciation  against  Pharaoh  . . 867 

Gondola,  The 847 

Grave  of  a Suicide,  The 839 

Greece 857 

Have  ye  not  seen 840 

How  gaily  sinks 882 

Huntsman’s  Song 852 

High  Priest,  The,  to  Alexander  ....  880 

Ignorance  of  Modern  Egypt 858 

Imagination 890 

In  early  youth,  I lost 838 

In  summer  when  all  nature 839 

In  winter’s  dull 836 

I wander  in  darkness 845 

King  Charles’s  Vision 894 

Lamentations  of  the  Peruvians  . . . .875 

Love 889 

Lines.  The  eye  must  catch 836 

Lines.  Whence  is  it 878 


Maid  of  Savoy,  The 858 

Maria  to  her  Lute  848 

Memory . 838 

Midnight 858 

Mitliridates  presenting  Berenice  . . . 871 
My  Brother 844 

Oak  of  the  North,  The 890 

Oh  ! never  may  forms 877 

Oh ! were  this  heart 884 

Oh ! ye  wild  winds 882 

Old  Chieftain,  The 873 

Old  Sword,  The 846 

On  a Dead  Enemy 878 

On  being  asked  for  a Simile 872 

On  Death  of  Lord  Byron 870 

On  Death  of  my  Grandmother  ....  862 

On  Golden  Evenings 843 

On  Sublimity 862 

On  the  Moonlight . 881 

Passions,  The 889 

Persia 852 

Phrenology 887 

Reign  of  Love,  The 865 

Religion  tho’  we  seem 841 

Remorse 842 

Scotch  Song 860 

Slighted  Lover,  The 885 

Song.  It  is  the  solemn  even 860 

Song.  To  sit  besido 890 

Stanzas.  Yon  star  of  eve 837 

Stars  of  yon  blue  placid  sky 861 

Still,  mute  and  motionless 877 

Sunday  Mobs 886 

Swiss  Song 856 

Switzerland 883 

The  dew  with  which 880 

The  sun  goes  down 877 

Those  worldly  goods 882 

Thou  earnest  to  thy  bower 879 

Thunder-Storm,  The 869 

Time  : an  ode 866 

’Tis  sweet  to  lead 836 

’Tis  the  voice  of  the  dead 866 

To , And  shall  we  say  . . . . . 879 

To , The  dew  that  sits 889 

To  Fancy 850 

To  one  whose  hope 846 

Vale  of  Bones,  The 848 

Walk  at  Midnight,  The 870 

We  meet  no  more 847 

Why  should  we  weep 841 

Written  by  an  Exile S47 

Yes;  there  be  some  gay  souls  . . . .839 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


Revered , beloved — 0 you  that  hold 
A noblen'  office  upon  earth 
Than  arms , or  power  of  brains , or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  Icings  of  old, 

Victoria , — since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  that  utter'd  nothing  base; 

And  should  your  greatness , and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  , empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhymx 
If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there; 

Then  — while  a sweeter  music  wakes, 

And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 
The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song ; 

For  tho  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 


2 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


In  vacant  chambers,  I could  trust 
Your  kindness.  May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 

“ She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

“ Her  court  was  pure ; her  life  serene; 

God  gave  her  peace;  her  land  reposed; 
A thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen; 

“ And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 

Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 
The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

14  By  shaping  some  august  decree, 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  stilt, 
Broad-based  upon  her  peoples  will, 

And  compass'd  by  the  inviolate  sea.” 


March,  1851. 


JUVENILIA, 


CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 


Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 

n. 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 

At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 
About  the  moss’d  headstone ; 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh 
And  looketh  down  alone. 

Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelletli, 
The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 
The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 

When  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of 
flowing 

Under  my  eye  ? 

When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of 
blowing 
Over  the  sky  ? 


When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of 
fleeting  1 

When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of 
beating  ? 

And  nature  die  1 

Never,  oh ! never,  nothing  will  die ; 
The  stream  flows, 

The  wind  blows, 

The  cloud  fleets, 

The  heart  beats, 

Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die ; 

All  things  will  change 
Thro’  eternity. 

’Tis  the  world’s  winter; 

Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago  ; 

Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 

But  spring,  a new  comer, 

A spring  rich  and  strange, 

Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 

Thro’  and  thro’, 

Here  and  there, 

Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  fill’d  with  life  anew. 

The  world  was  never  made ; 

It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 
So  let  the  wind  range  ; 

For  even  and  morn 
Ever  will  be 
Thro’  eternity. 

Nothing  was  born ; 

Nothing  will  die ; 

All  things  will  change. 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 

Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its 
flowing 

Under  my  eye ; 

Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds 
are  blowing 
Over  the  sky. 

One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are 
fleeting ; 

Every  heart  this  May  morning  in  joy- 
ance  is  beating 
Full  merrily ; 

Yet  all  things  must  die. 

The  stream  will  cease  to  flow ; 

The  wind  will  cease  to  blow ; 

The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 

The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 

For  all  things  must  die. 

All  things  must  die. 

Spring  will  come  never  more. 

Oh ! vanity ! 

Death  waits  at  the  door. 

See ! our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  the  merrymaking. 

We  are  call’d  — we  must  go. 

Laid  low,  very  low, 

In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 

The  merry  glees  are  still ; 

The  voice  of  the  bird 
Shall  no  more  be  heard, 

Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 

Oh ! misery ! 

Hark  ! death  is  calling 
While  I speak  to  ye, 

The  jaw  is  falling, 

The  red  cheek  paling, 

The  strong  limbs  failing ; 

Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing ; 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 

Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell : 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 

The  old  earth 
Had  a birth, 

As  all  men  know, 

Long  ago. 

And  the  old  earth  must  die. 

So  let  the  warm  winds  range, 

And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Thro’  eternity. 


All  things  were  born. 

Ye  will  come  never  more, 
For  all  things  must  die. 


LEONINE  ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming 
the  broad  valley  dimm’d  in  the 
gloaming : 

Tlioro’  the  black-stemm’d  pines  only 
the  far  river  shines. 

Creeping  thro’  blossomy  rushes  and 
bowers  of  rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  bab- 
ble and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly ; the 
grasshopper  carolleth  clearly; 

Deeply  the  wood-dove  coos;  shrilly 
the  owlet  halloos ; 

Winds  creep ; dews  fall  chilly : in  her 
first  sleep  earth  breathes  stilly  : 

Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  water-gnats 
murmur  and  mourn. 

Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth : the  glim- 
mering water  out-floweth  : 

Twin  peaks  shadow’d  with  pine  slope 
to  the  dark  hyaline. 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  between 
the  two  peaks ; but  the  Naiad 

Throbbing  in  mild  unrest  holds  him 
beneath  in  her  breast. 

The  ancient  poetess  singeth,  that  Hes- 
perus all  things  bringeth, 

Smoothing  the  wearied  mind : bring 
me  my  love,  Rosalind. 

Thou  comest  morning  or  even;  she 
cometh  not  morning  or  even. 

False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is 
my  sw'eet  Rosalind  ? 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS 

OF  A SECOND-RATE  SENSITIVE  MIND. 

0 God!  my  God  ! have  mercy  now. 

1 faint,  I fall.  Men  say  that  Thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me, 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn, 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a thorn 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A SENSITIVE  MIND. 


5 


Among  the  thorns  that  girt  Thy  brow, 
Wounding  Thy  soul.  — That  even  now, 
In  this  extremest  misery 
Of  ignorance,  I should  require 
A sign ! and  if  a bolt  of  tire 
Would  rive  the  slumbrous  summer 
noon 

While  I do  pray  to  Thee  alone, 

Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow : 
Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low  "? 
The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still"? 

The  joy  I had  in  my  freewill 
All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like 
grown  ? 

And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  Thou 
And  faith  in  Thee  ? Men  pass  me  by ; 
Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 
And  children  all  seem  full  of  Thee ! 
And  women  smile  with  saint-like 
glances 

Like  Thine  own  mother’s  when  she 
bow’d 

Above  Thee,  on  that  happy  morn 
When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud, 
And  Thou  and  peace  to  earth  were 
born, 

Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 

I one  of  them  : my  brothers  they  : 
Brothers  in  Christ  — a world  of  peace 
And  confidence,  day  after  day ; 

And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should 
cease, 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a common  faith ! 
To  hold  a common  scorn  of  death ! 
And  at  a burial  to  hear 
The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and 
eat 

Into  my  human  heart,  whene’er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not 
fear, 

With  hopeful  grief,  were  passing 
sweet ! 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee ! 

Who  lets  his  rosy  fingers  play 
About  his  mother’s  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother’s  eyes. 
They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day ; 
They  light  his  little  life  alway ; 


He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes ; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death ; 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is ; 

And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 

Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth. 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell, 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart, 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth, 

Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air, 

Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtil,  warm,  and  golden  breath. 
Which  mixing  with  the  infant’s  blood, 
Fulfils  him  with  beatitude. 

Oh ! sure  it  is  a special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt, 

To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple-mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant’s  dawning  year. 

Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 
Propt  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 
In  thine,  I listen’d  to  thy  vdws, 

For  me  outpour’d  in  holiest  prayer  — 
For  me  unworthy!  — and  beheld 
Thy  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 

And  the  clear  spirit  shining  thro’. 

Oh  ! wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 
From  roots  which  strike  so  deep  1 why 
dare 

Paths  in  the  desert ? Could  not  I 
Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast 
knelt, 

To  the  earth  — until  the  ice  would 
melt 

Here,  and  I feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  rear’d  — to  brush 
the  dew 

From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay "? 
Myself  "?  Is  it  thus  ? Myself  ? Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee  "?  But  why 
Prevail’d  not  thy  pure  prayers "?  Why 
pray 

To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not  ? Great  in  faith,  and 
strong 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A SENSITIVE  MIND. 


Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard.  What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Thro’  utter  dark  a full-sail’ d skiff, 
Unpiloted  i’  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk ! I know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong, 

That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive, 

In  deep  and  daily  prayers  would’st 
strive 

To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 

Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur 
still  — 

“ Bring  this  lamb  back  into  Thy  fold, 
My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  Thy  will.” 
Would’st  tell  me  I must  brook  the  rod 
And  chastisement  of  human  pride ; 
That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 
Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God ! 
That  hitherto  I had  defied 
And  had  rejected  God  — that  grace 
Would  drop  from  his  o’er-brimming 
love, 

As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 

If  I would  pray  — that  God  would 
move 

And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and 
thence, 

Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 
Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which  would  keep  green  hope’s  life. 
Alas ! 

I think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Nor  sojourn  in  me.  I am  void, 

Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ? Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moor’d  and  rested  ? Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope 
waves 

After  a tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a mountain  tarn  ? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  mere  ? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and 
paves 


The  other  ? I am  too  forlorn, 

Too  shaken : my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Moved  from  beneath  with  doubt  and 
fear. 

“ Yet,”  said  I in  my  morn  of  youth, 
The  unsunn’d  freshness  of  my  strength. 
When  I went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 

“ It  is  man’s  privilege  to  doubt, 

If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length, 
Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved  or 
change, 

An  image  with  profulgent  brows, 

And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 
Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 
Of  lawless  airs,  at  last  stood  out 
This  excellence  and  solid  form 
Of  constant  beauty.  For  the  Ox 
Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 
The  horned  valleys  all  about, 

And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 
In  summer  heats,  with  placid  lows 
Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 
About  his  hoof.  And  in  the  flocks 
The  lamb  rejoicetli  in  the  year, 

And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere, 

And  answers  to  his  mother’s  calls 
From  the  flower’d  furrow.  In  a time, 
Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 
Thro’  his  warm  heart ; and  then,  from 
whence 

He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 
A shadow;  and  his  native  slope, 
Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 
Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes, 
And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 
His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 
Shall  man  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 
As  a young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 
Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on  ? 
Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 
Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that 
seem, 

And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 
If  one  there  be  ? ” Ay  me  ! I fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  Idols.  Yet,  my  God, 
Whom  call  I Idol  ? Let  Thy  dove 
Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 


THE  KRAKEN. 


7 


Be  unremember’d,  and  Thy  love 
Enlighten  me.  Oh  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

0 weary  life  ! O weary  death ! 

O spirit  and  heart  made  desolate  ! 
O damned  vacillating  state  ! 


THE  KRAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper 
deep ; 

Ear,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 

His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded 
sleep 

The  Ivraken  sleepeth : faintest  sun- 
lights flee 

About  his  shadowy  sides  : above  him 
swell 

Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth 
and  height ; 

And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 

From  many  a wondrous  grot  and 
secret  cell 

Unnumber’d  and  enormous  polypi 

Winnow  with  giant  arms  the  slumber- 
ing green. 

There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 

Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his 
sleep, 

Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the 
deep ; 

Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be 
seen, 

In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the 
surface  die. 


SONG. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 
Leaning  upon  the  ridged  sea, 
Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  preludes,  “We  are 
free.” 

The  streams  through  many  a liliedrow 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea, 
Low-tinkled  with  a bell-like  flow 
Atween  the  blossoms,  “We  are 
free.” 


LILIAN. 


Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 

When  I ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 
Laughing  all  she  can  ; 

She’ll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 

ii. 

When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-siglis, 

She,  looking  thro’  and  thro’  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 

So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 
Then  away  she  flies. 

hi. 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian  ! 

Gayety  without  eclipse 
Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian  : 

Thro’  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 
When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth : 
Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian. 

IV. 

Praying  all  I can, 

If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 

Like  a rose-leaf  I will  crush  thee, 
Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 


Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright, 
but  fed 

With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of 
chastity, 

Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended 

by 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  trans- 
lucent fane 


s 


MARIANA. 


Of  her  still  spirit ; locks  not  wide-dis- 
pread, 

Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her 
head ; 

Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually 
did  reign 

The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 

Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 
Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and 
head, 

The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 
Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pure 
lowlihead. 

ii. 

The  intuitive  decision  of  a bright 

And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  from  crime  ; a prudence  to 
withhold ; 

The  laws  of  marriage  character’d 
in  gold 

Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her 
heart ; 

A love  still  burning  upward,  giving 
light 

To  read  those  laws;  an  accent  very 
low 

In  blandishment,  but  a most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  dis- 
tress, 

Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho’ 
undescried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme 
gentleness 

Thro’  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious 
pride ; 

A courage  to  endure  and  to  obey ; 

A hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 

Crown’d  Isabel,  thro’  all  her  placid  life, 

The  queen  of  marriage,  a most  perfect 
wife. 

hi. 

The  mellow’d  reflex  of  a winter  moon  ; 

A clear  stream  flowing  with  a muddy 
one, 

Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  in 
purer  light 

The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward 
brother : 

A leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 


Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had 
fallen  quite 

With  cluster’d  flower-bells  and  am- 
brosial orbs 

Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on 
each  other  — 

Shadow  forth  thee  : — the  world 
hath  not  another 

(Tho’  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types 
of  thee, 

And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 

Of  such  a finish’d  chasten’d  purity. 


MARIANA. 

“Mariana  in  the  moated  grange.” 

Measure  for  Measure. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 
That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable- 
wall. 

The  broken  sheds  look’d  sad  and 
strange : 

Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  “My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! ” 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 
Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were 
dried ; 

She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 
Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 

After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

AY  hen  thickest  dark  did  trance  the 
sky, 

She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glancedathwartthegloomingflats. 
She  only  said,  “The  night  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead  ! ” 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl 
crow : 

The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen’s  low 


She  said,  ‘I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I would  that  I were  dead  ! ’ ” 

Page  8. 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


Came  to  her  : without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed 
morn 

About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  “ The  day  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said  ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! ” 

About  a stone-cast  from  the  wall 
A sluice  with  blacken’d  waters  slept, 
And  o’er  it  many,  round  and  small, 
The  cluster’d  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a poplar  shook  alway, 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  “ My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 
I would  that  I were  dead ! ” 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 
And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and 
away, 

In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  modn  was  very  low, 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their 
cell, 

The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  “The  night  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! ” 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak’d; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane ; the 
mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot 
shriek’d, 

Or  from  the  crevice  peer’d  about. 

Old  faces  glimmer’d  thro’  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  “ My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said ; 

She  said,  “I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I would  that  I were  dead ! ” 


The  sparrows  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 
The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense ; but  most  she  loathed  the 
hour 

When  the  thick-moated  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  “ I am  very  dreary, 
He  will  not  come,”  she  said ; 
She  wept,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 
Oh,  God,  that  I were  dead  ! ” 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 
With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 
The  house  thro’  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 
And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines  : 

A faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 

An  empty  river-bed  before, 

And  shallows  on  a distant  shore, 

In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  “ Ave  Mary,”  made  she  moan, 
And  “ Ave  Mary,”  night  and 
morn, 

And  “ Ah,”  she  sang,  “ to  be  all 
alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn.” 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro’  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest 
brown 

To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear 
Still-lighted  in  a secret  shrine, 

Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 

The  home  of  woe  without  a tear. 

And  “Ave  Mary,”  was  her  moan, 
“ Madonna,  sad  is  night  and 
morn,” 

And  “ Ah,”  she  sang,  “ to  be  all 
alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn.” 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 
Into  deep  orange  o’er  the  sea, 


10 


TO . 


Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 
Before  Our  Lady  murmur’d  she  ; 
Complaining,  “ Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load.” 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow’d 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

“ Is  this  the  form,”  she  made  her 
moan, 

“ That  won  his  praises  night 
and  morn  ? ” 

And  “Ah,”  she  said,  “ but  I wake 
alone, 

I sleep  forgotten,  I wake  for- 
lorn.” 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would 
bleat, 

Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat, 
On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 

And  seem’d  knee-deep  in  mountain 
grass, 

And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass, 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 

She  breathed  in  sleep  a lower 
moan, 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and 
morn, 

She  thought,  “ My  spirit  is  here 
alone, 

Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn.” 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a dream  : 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke  : the  babble  of  the  stream 
Tell,  and,  without,  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sear  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 

And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 

She  whisper’d,  with  a stifled  moan 

More  inward  than  at  night  or 
morn, 

“ Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here 
alone 

Live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn.” 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 
Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  “ Love,”  they  said,  “ must  needs 
be  true, 


To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth.” 
An  image  seem’d  to  pass  the  door, 

To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say 
“ But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  forevermore.” 

“ 0 cruel  heart,”  she  changed  her 
tone, 

“And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is 
scorn, 

Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  die  for- 
lorn ? ” 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 
An  image  seem’d  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

“ But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more.” 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

“ The  day  to  night,”  she  made  her 
moan, 

“ The  day  to  night,  the  night  to 
morn, 

And  day  and  night  I am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn.” 

At  eve  a dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a sound  as  of  the  sea ; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung, 
And  lean’d  upon  the  balcony. 

There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter’d  on  her  tears, 
And  deepening  thro’  the  silent 
spheres 

Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 
And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 
“The  night  comes  on  that  knows 
not  morn, 

When  I shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 


TO . 

Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful 
scorn, 

Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts 
atwain 


MADELINE. 


11 


The  knots  that  tangle  human 
creeds, 

• The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and 
strain 

The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 

Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a glance  so  keen  as  thine  .* 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

ii. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 
Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited 
brow : 

Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not 
now 

With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 

Nor  martyr  - flames,  nor  trenchant 
swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie  ; 

A gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die, 

Shot  thro’  and  thro’  with  cunning 
words. 

hi. 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost 
need, 

Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 

Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 

And  weary  with  a finger’s  touch 
Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning 
speed ; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old, 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 

Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  livelong 
night, 

And  heaven’s  mazed  signs  stood  still 

In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 

i. 

Thou  are  not  steep’d  in  golden  lan- 
guors, 

No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 

Thro’  light  and  shadow  thou  dost 
range, 

Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 


ii. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 

Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  : but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter  ? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 
Who  may  know  ? 

Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine, 

Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,  are 
thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another, 

Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother ; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine ; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 

Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

hi. 

A subtle,  sudden  flame, 

By  veering  passion  fann’d, 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances : 
When  I would  kiss  thy  hand, 

The  flush  of  anger’d  shame 

O’erflows  thy  calmer  glances. 

And  o’er  black  brows  drops  down 
A sudden-curved  frown : 

But  when  I turn  away, 

Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest ; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 

All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 
In  a golden-netted  smile ; 

Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 

If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 

Again  thou  blushest  angerly  ; 

And  o’er  black  brows  drops  down 
A sudden-curved  frown. 


SONG  : THE  OWL. 

i. 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come 
And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 


12 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

ii. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown 
hay, 

And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the 
thatch 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits 


SECOND  SONG. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

I. 

Thy  tuwhits  are  lull’d,  I wot, 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 

Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 

So  took  echo  with  delight, 

So  took  echo  with  delight, 

That  her  voice  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a fainter  tone. 

ii. 

I would  mock  thy  chant  anew  ; 

But  I cannot  mimic  it ; 

Not  a whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

With  a lengthen’d  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo- 
o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE 
ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

When  the  breeze  of  a joyful  dawn 
blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 

The  tide  of  time  flow’d  back  with  me, 
The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time ; 
And  many  a sheeny  summer-morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I was  borne, 

By  Bagdat’s  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old  ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I and  sworn, 


For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alrascliid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro’ 

The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and 
clove 

The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 

By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 

The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 
Gold  glittering  thro’  lamplight  dim, 
And  broider’d  sofas  on  each  side : 

In  sooth  it  was  a goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,  where  clear-stemm’d  platans 
guard 

The  outlet,  did  I turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which 
crept 

Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 

A goodly  place,  a goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro’  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I enter’d,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbower’d  vaults  of  pillar’d  palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which,  as  they 
clomb 

Heavenward,  were  stay’d  beneath  the 
dome 

Of  hollow  boughs.  — A goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward  ; and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a lake. 

From  the  green  rivage  many  a fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 

Thro’  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain’s  flow 
Fall’n  silver-chiming,  seemed  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


13 


A goodly  place,  a goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro’  many  a bowery  turn 
A walk  with  vary-color’d  shells 
Wander’d  engrain’d.  On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 

Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon  grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung. 

The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung ; 
Not  he  : but  something  which  possess’d 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress’d, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber’d : the  solemn  palms  were 
ranged 

Above,  unwoo’d  of  summer  wind : 

A sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Flush’d  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold- 
green, 

And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.  A lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 

Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame : 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 

In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 
Entranced  with  that  place  and  time, 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Thence  thro’  the  garden  I was  drawn — 
A realm  of  pleasance,  many  a mound, 
And  many  a shadow-checker’d  lawn 
Full  of  the  city’s  stilly  sound, 

And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing 
round 

The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 

Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 

Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 
In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  visions  unawares 
From  the  long  alley’s  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 

Bight  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ban  up  with  golden  balustrade, 

After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 

And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 

A million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look’d  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream’d 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem’d 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 
Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous 
time 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony, 

In  many  a dark  delicious  curl, 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  ; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 

Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Airaschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 


14 


ODE  TO  MEMORY . 


Down-droop’d,  in  many  a floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper’d 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a cloth  of 
gold. 

Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr’d 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 

Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I saw  him  — in  his  golden  prime, 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 

ADDRESSED  TO  . 

I. 

Thou  who  stealest  fire, 

From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 

To  glorify  the  present ; oh,  haste, 
Visit  my  low  desire  ! 
Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

I faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

ii. 

Come  not  as  thou  earnest  of  late, 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 

On  the  white  day  ; but  robed  in  soft- 
en’d light 
Of  orient  state. 

Whilom  thou  earnest  with  the  morn- 
ing mist, 

Even  as  a maid,  whose  stately  brow 

The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn 
have  kiss’d. 

When,  she,  as  thou, 

Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely 
freight 

Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest 
shoots 

Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of 
fruits, 

Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 

The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 

hi. 

Whilom  thou  earnest  with  the  morn- 
ing mist, 

And  with  the  evening  cloud, 

Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my 
open  breast 

(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the 
rudest  wind 


Never  grow  sear, 

When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the 
mind, 

Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the 
year). 

Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 

In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken 
rest 

Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant 
Hope. 

The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught 
from  thee 

The  light  of  thy  great  presence ; and 
the  cope 

Of  the  half-attain’d  futurity, 

Tho’  deep  not  fathomless, 

Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars 
which  tremble 

O’er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  in- 
fancy. 

Small  thought  was  there  of  life’s  dis- 
tress ; 

For  sure  she  deem’d  no  mist  of  earth 
could  dull 

Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and 
beautiful : 

Sure  she  was  niglier  to  heaven’s 
spheres, 

Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing 
from 

The  illimitable  years. 

0 strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1 faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

IV. 

Come  forth,  I charge  thee,  arise, 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad 
eyes ! 

Thou  comest  not  with  showers  of 
flaunting  vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 

Divinest  Memory ! 

Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  water- 
fall 

Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 

Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried  : 

Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the 
gray  hill-side, 

The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 

That  stand  beside  my  father’s  door. 


SONG. 


15 


And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed 
sand, 

Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 
In  every  elbow  and  turn, 

The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  wood- 
land, 

O ! hither  lead  thy  feet ! 

Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong 
bleat 

Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wat- 
tled folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 

When  the  first  matin-song  hath 
waken’d  loud 

Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Porth  gushes  from  beneath  a low-hung 
cloud. 


Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 

To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed ; 

And  like  a bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led, 

Withmusicandsweetshowers 
Of  festal  flowers, 

Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 

Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist 
Memory, 

In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought 
gold ; 

Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first 
essay, 

And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 

Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight 
falls 

Upon  the  storied  walls  ; 

Por  the  discovery 

And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased 
thee. 

That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of 
fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 

With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 

The  first-born  of  thy  genius.  Artist- 
like, 

Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 

On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days : 


No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be  ; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bush- 
less Pike, 

Or  even  a sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 

Or  even  a lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretch'd  wide  and  wild  the  waste 
enormous  marsh, 

Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 

Like  emblems  of  infinity, 

The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to 
sky; 

Or  a garden  bower’d  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 
Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight 
grots, 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender : 

Whither  in  after  life  retired 
Prom  brawling  storms, 

Prom  weary  wind, 

With  youthful  fancy  re-inspired, 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all 
forms 

Of  the  many-sided  mind, 

And  those  whom  passion  hath  not 
blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A crown,  a sceptre,  and  a throne  ! 

0 strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1 faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 

A spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing 
bowers : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 

For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and 
sigh 

In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy 
stalks 


16 


A CHAR  A C TER. 


Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i’  the  earth  so 
chilly ; 

Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

ii. 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hush’d,  and  close, 

As  a sick  man’s  room  when  he  taketh 
repose 

An  hour  before  death  ; 

My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole 
soul  grieves 

At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting 
leaves, 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box 
beneath, 

And  the  year’s  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i’  the  earth  so 
chilly ; 

Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily 


A CHARACTER. 

With  a half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  “ The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things.” 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty ; that  the  dull 
Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air ; 
Then  looking  as  ’twere  in  a glass, 

He  smooth’d  his  chin  and  sleek’d  his 
hair, 

And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue  : not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by  : 

And  with  a sweeping  of  the  arm, 

And  a lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye. 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 


Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass’d  human  mysteries. 

And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes, 

And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress’d  as  he  were  meek, 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold : 

Upon  himself  himself  did  feed: 

Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold, 

And  other  than  his  form  of  creed, 
With  chisell’d  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET. 

The  poet  in  a golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above; 

Dower’d  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the 
scorn  of  scorn. 

The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro’  life  and  death,  thro’ 
good  and  ill, 

He  saw  thro’  his  own  soul, 

The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay : with  echoing  feet  he 
threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 

The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts 
were  headed 
And  wing’d  with  flame. 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  sil- 
ver tongue. 

And  of  so  fierce  a flight, 

From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which 
bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 

Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field 
flower. 

The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing 
forth  anew 

Where’er  they  fell,  behold. 


THE  POET’S  MIND. 


Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  sem- 
blance, grew 

A flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnish’d  all  abroad  to 
fling 

Thy  winged  shafts  of  truth, 

To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the 
breathing  spring 

Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs 
with  beams, 

Tho’  one  did  fling  the  fire. 

Heaven  flow’d  upon  the  soul  in  many 
dreams 

Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth, 
the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show’d, 

And  thro’  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 
upcurl’d, 

Hare  sunrise  flow’d. 

And  Freedom  rear’d  in  that  august 
sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 

When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burn- 
ing eyes 

Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden 
robes 

Sunn’d  by  those  orient  skies  ; 

But  round  about  the  circles  of  the 
globes 

Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment’s  hem  was  traced 
in  flame 

Wisdom,  a name  to  shake 

All  evil  dreams  of  power — a sacred 
name. 

And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they 
ran, 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thun- 
der 

Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of 
man, 

Making  earth  wonder, 


So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words. 
No  sword 

Cf  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl’d, 
But  one  poor  poet’s  scroll,  and  with 
his  word 

She  shook  the  world. 


THE  POET’S  MIND. 

i. 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet’s  mind 
With  thy  shallow  wit : 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet’s  mind ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 

Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a crystal  river; 

Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 

ii. 

Dark-brow’d  sophist,  come  not  anear ; 
All  the  place  is  holy  ground ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 
Come  not  here. 

Holy  water  will  I pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it 
around. 

The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel 
cheer. 

In  your  eye  there  is  death, 

There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird’s  din. 

In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry 
bird  chants. 

It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came 
in. 

In  the  middle  leaps  a fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning, 

Ever  brightening 
With  a low  melodious  thunder  ; 

All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  moun- 
tain 

Which  stands  in  the  distance  yon- 
der : 

It  springs  on  a level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from 
Heaven  above. 


18 


TIIE  SEA-FAIRIES. 


And  it  sings  a song  of  undying  love  ; 

And  yet,  tho’  its  voice  be  so  clear  and 
full, 

You  never  would  hear  it;  your  ears 
are  so  dull ; 

So  keep  where  you  are : you  are  foul 
with  sin ; 

It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you 
came  in. 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slowt  sail’d  the  weary  mariners  and 
saw, 

Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning foam, 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold  ; and  while  they 
mused 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 
Shrill  music  reach’d  them  on  the  mid- 
dle sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 
away  ? fly  no  more. 

Whither  away  from  the  high  green 
field,  and  the  happy  blossoming 
shore  ? 

Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  foun- 
tain calls : 

Down  shower  the  gambolling  water- 
falls 

From  wandering  over  the  lea  : 

Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery -crimson 
shells, 

And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover- 
hill  swells 

High  over  the  full-toned  sea : 

O hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your 
sails, 

Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  : 

Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and 
play ; 

Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day: 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 

For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and 
dales, 

And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales, 


And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and 
bay, 

And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on 
the  land 

Over  the  islands  free ; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of 
the  sand  ; 

Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 

And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising 
wave, 

And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and 
cave, 

And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be  : 

O hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our 
lords, 

For  merry  brides  are  we  : 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak 
sweet  words : 

O listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee : 

0 listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the 
golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 

Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a shore 
All  the  world  o’er,  ail  the  wrorld  o’er'? 
Whither  away  ? listen  and  stay : 
mariner,  mariner,  fly  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

i. 

Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side. 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  -. 
Careless  tenants  they ! 

ii. 

All  within  is  dark  as  night  • 

In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 

And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 

So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

hi. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  thro’  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 
Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 

IV. 

Come  away : no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 


“ The  nakedness  and  vacancy  of  the  dark,  deserted  house.” 

Page  18. 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 


19 


The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

v. 

Come  away : for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell; 

But  in  a city  glorious  — 

A great  and  distant  city  — have  bought 
A mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  staid  with  us! 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 

i. 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 

With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a dying  swan, 

And  loudly  did  lament. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 

ii. 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky, 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did 
sigh ; 

Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  thro’  the  marish  green 
and  still 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 
Shot  ovei  with  purple,  and  green,  and 
yellow. 

hi. 

The  wild  swan’s  deatli-hymn  took  the 
soul 

Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow : at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and 
clear  ; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 
Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach 
stole 


Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear ; 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 

With  a music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow’d  forth  on  a carol  free  and  bold; 

As  when  a mighty  people  rejoice 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and 
harps  of  gold. 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is 
roll’d 

Thro’  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the 
evening  star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clamber- 
ing weeds, 

And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and 
dank, 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing 
reeds, 

And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echo- 
ing bank, 

And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that 
throng 

The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 

Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A DIRGE. 


Now  is  done  thy  long  day’s  work , 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 

Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

ii. 

Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 

Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O’er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

hi. 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed ; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 


20 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 


Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

IV. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor’s  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 

Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O’er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

v. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep. 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale, 

And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 

These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro’  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

VI. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine ; 

The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 

Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

VII. 

Wild  words  wander  here  and  there : 
God’s  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused  : 

But  let  them  rave. 

The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was 
gathering  light 

Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Para- 
dise, 

And  all  about  him  roll’d  his  lustrous 

eyes ; 

When,  turning  round  a cassia,  full  in 
view, 

Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a 
yew, 


And  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his 
sight : 

“ You  must  begone,”  said  Death, 
“ these  walks  are  mine.” 

Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans 
for  flight ; 

Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  “ This  hour  is 
thine  : 

Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as 
the  tree 

Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all 
beneath, 

So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 

Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of 
death ; 

The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree 
shall  fall, 

But  I shall  reign  forever  over  all.” 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 
My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 
Oriana. 

There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 

When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb’d 
with  snow, 

And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds 
blow, 

Oriana, 

Alone  I wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 
Oriana, 

At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 
Oriana : 

Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 
Oriana ; 

Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 
Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 
Oriana, 

Ere  I rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 

While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 
Oriana, 

I to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 


CIR  C UMS  TANCE. 


21 


She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 
Oriana : 

She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 
Oriana : 

She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  stept  a foeman  tall, 
Oriana, 

Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 
Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 

The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 
Oriana : 

The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 

And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my 
bride, 

Oriana ! 

Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 
Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 
Oriana. 

Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle’s  brays, 
Oriana. 

Oh ! deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen’d  in  its  place, 
Oriana ; 

But  I was  down  upon  my  face, 
Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb’d  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana ! 

How  could  I rise  and  come  away, 
Oriana  h 

How  could  I look  upon  the  day  1 
They  should  have  stabb’d  me  where  I 
lay, 

Oriana  — 

They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 
Oriana. 

O breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 
Oriana ! 

O pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 
Oriana ! 

Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 
Oriana : 

What  wantest  thou  1 whom  dost  thou 
seek, 

Oriana  ? 


I cry  aloud : none  hear  my  cries, 
Oriana. 

Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 
Oriana. 

I feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 
Oriana. 

Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 
Oriana. 

0 cursed  hand  ! 0 cursed  blow  ! 
Oriana  ! 

0 happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 

All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 

A weary,  weary  way  I go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the 
sea, 

Oriana, 

1 walk,  I dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 

Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 
Oriana. 

I hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 

Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  heathy- 
leas; 

Two  strangers  meeting  at  a festival ; 

Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard 
wall ; 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with 
golden  ease; 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a gray 
church-tower, 

Wash’d  with  still  rains  and  daisy  blos- 
somed ; 

Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and 
bred ; 

So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour 
to  hour. 


22 


THE  MERMAN. 


THE  MERMAN. 

i. 

Who  would  be 
A merman  bold. 

Sitting  alone. 

Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea, 

With  a crown  of  gold, 

On  a throne  ? 

ii. 

I would  be  a merman  bold, 

I would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the 
day; 

I would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a voice 
of  power; 

But  at  night  I would  roam  abroad  and 
play 

With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the 
rocks, 

Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea- 
flower  ; 

And  holding  them  back  by  their  flow- 
ing locks 

I would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 

And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss’d 
me 

Laughingly,  laughingly ; 

And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 

To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight 
and  high, 

Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

iii. 

There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 

But  the  wave  would  make  music  above 
us  afar  — 

Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic 
night  — 

Neither  moon  nor  star. 

We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy 
dells, 

Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily  ; 

They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  span- 
gles and  shells, 

Laughing  and  clapping  their  Jiands 
between, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily : 

But  I would  throw  to  them  back  in 
mine 


Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine  : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss’d  me 
Laughingly,  laughingly. 

Oh  ! what  a happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  MERMAID. 

i. 

Who  would  be 
A mermaid  fair, 

Singing  alone, 

Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 

In  a golden  curl 
With  a comb  of  pearl. 

On  a throne  ? 

ii. 

I would  be  a mermaid  fair ; 

I would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  ol 
the  day ; 

With  a comb  of  pearl  I would  comb 
my  hair ; 

And  still  as  I comb’d  I would  sing  and 
say, 

“ Who  is  it  loves  me  ? who  loves  not 
me  'i  ” 

I would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets 
would  fall 

Low  adown,  low  adown, 

From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 
Low  adown  and  around, 

And  I should  look  like  a fountain  of 
gold 

Springing  alone 
With  a shrill  inner  sound. 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall ; 

Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 

From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central 
deeps 

Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 

Round  the  hall  where  I sate,  and  look 
in  at  the  gate 

With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love 
of  me. 


ADELINE. 


23 


And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 

Would  feel  their  immortality 

Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


in. 

But  at  night  I would  wander  away, 
away, 

I would  fling  on  each  side  my  low- 
flowing  locks, 

And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and 
play 

With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the 
rocks ; 

We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide 
and  seek, 

On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crim- 
son shells, 

Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the 
sea. 

But  if  any  came  near  I would  call,  and 
shriek, 

And  adown  the  steep  like  a wave  I 
would  leap 

From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut 
from  the  dells ; 

For  I would  not  be  kiss’d  by  all  who 
would  list, 

Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the 
sea ; 

They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and 
flatter  me, 

In  the  purple  twilights  under  the 
sea  ; 

But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry 
me, 

Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry 
me, 

In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the 
sea; 

Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 

In  the  liueless  mosses  under  the  sea 

Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet 
silently, 

All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 

And  if  I should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 

All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned, 
and  soft 

Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere 
of  the  sea, 

All  looking  down  for  the  love  of 
me. 


ADELINE. 

i. 

Mystery  of  mysteries, 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 

Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 

But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair  ; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my 
breast. 

Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

ii. 

Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 
Like  a lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro’  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a rose-bush  leans  upon, 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 

As  a Naiad  in  a well, 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day, 

Or  a phantom  two  hours  old 
Of  a maiden  past  away, 

Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold  ? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  ot 
thine, 

Spiritual  Adeline  1 


hi. 

What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  1 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  ? 

For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone. 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient 
springs 

Keep  measure  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their 
wings  ? 

Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews 't 
Or  when  little  airs  arise, 

How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath  ? 
Hast  thou  look’duponthebreath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise  ? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine. 
Shadowy,  dreamy  Adeline  1 


24 


MARGARET. 


IV. 

Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee  ? whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften’d,  shadow’d  brow, 
And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine, 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 

v. 

Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  ? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the 
morn, 

Dripping  with  Sabeean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-drooping  twined 
Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still, 

In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill  'l 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


MARGARET. 

i. 

O sweet  pale  Margaret, 

O rare  pale  Margaret, 

What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a falling  shower  1 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect 
pale, 

Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  ? 
From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have 
won 

A tearful  grace,  as  tho’  you  stood 
Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent 
cheek, 


Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 
Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spread- 
eth, 

Moving  thro’  a fleecy  night. 

ii. 

You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 
Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 
You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and 
bright : 

Lull’d  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow 
light 

Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of 
night. 

in. 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning 
stars 

The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro’  his  prison 
bars  % 

Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can 
tell 

The  last  wild  thought  of  Qhatelet, 
Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true 
heart, 

Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so 
well  ? 

IV. 

A fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow’s  shade, 
Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 

You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine, 

But  more  human  in  your  moods, 
Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 
Touch’d  with  a somewhat  darker 
hue, 

And  less  aerially  blue, 


ROSALIND. 


25 


But  ever-trembling  tliro’  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 

v. 

0 sweet  pale  Margaret, 

O rare  pale  Margaret, 

Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me 
speak  : 

Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek  : 
The  sun  is  just  about  to  set, 

The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 
Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 
Where  all  day  long  you  sit 
between 

Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 
Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes 
dawn 

Upon  me  thro’  the  jasmine-leaves. 


ROSALIND. 

i. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes, 
Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height 
of  rapid  flight, 

Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon 
whither, 

Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind  1 

n. 

The  quick  lark’s  closest-caroll’d 
strains, 

The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea, 

The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains, 
The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 
The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind, 
That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way, 

To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 

Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 

You  care  not  for  another’s  pains, 


Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 
Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 

Life  shoots  and  glances  thro’  youi 
veins, 

And  flashes  off  a thousand  ways, 
Thro’  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawk-eyes  are  keen  and  bright, 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  thro’  with  pointed  light; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a dancing  rill, 

And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter, 
Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 

hi. 

Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind : 
Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies ; 
Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will ; 
But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes, 
That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 

And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view, 

Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 
Touch’d  with  sunrise.  We  must  bind 
And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 
Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 
And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  you 
love  : 

When  we  have  lured  you  from  above, 
And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  bj 
day  or  night, 

From  North  to  South, 

We’ll  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords 
And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 
From  off  your  rosy  mouth. 


'ELEANORE. 

i. 

Thy  dark  eyes  open’d  not, 

Nor  first  reveal’d  themselves  to 
English  air, 

For  there  is  nothing  here, 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward 
brought, 

Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 

Far  off  from  human  neighborhood, 
Thou  wert  born,  on  a summer 
morn. 


26 


ELEANORE. 


A mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 

Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not 
fann’d 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken 
glades, 

But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious 
land 

Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating 
shades : 

And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought, 

At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 

Prom  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 

And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 

And  shadow’d  coves  on  a sunny 
shore, 

The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the 
earth, 

Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 

To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 

ii. 

Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 

Thro’  half-open  lattices 

Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a child,  lying  alone, 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gar- 
dens cull’d  — 

A glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 

In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding 
down, 

With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 
Into  dreamful  slumber  lull’d. 


nr. 

Who  may  minister  to  thee? 

Summer  herself  should  minister 
To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a bovver 
Grape-thicken’d  from  the  light,  and 
blinded 

With  many  a deep-hued  bell-like 
flower 

Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 

And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore  1 


IV. 

How  many  full-sail’d  verse  express, 
How  many  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 

Eleanore  ? 

The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 

Eleanore  ? 

Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 

And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 

That  stays  upon  thee  ? For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 
Mingle  ever.  Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho’ 

They  were  modulated  so 
To  an  unheard  melody, 

Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a sweep 
Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep  ; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore  ? 

v. 

I stand  before  thee,  Eleanore ; 

I see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 

I muse,  as  in  a trance,  the  while 
Slowly,  as  from  a cloud  of  gold, 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 

I muse,  as  in  a trance,  whene’er 
The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.  I would  I were 
So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 

To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore. 

Gazing  on  thee  forevermore, 

Serene,  imperial  Eleanore ! 

VI. 

Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 
Gazing,  I seem  to  see 
Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling 
asleep, 

Slowly  awaken’d,  grow  so  full  and  deep 
In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower’d 
quite. 


ELEANORE . 


27 


I cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 

As  tho’  a star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 
Ev’n  while  we  gaze  on  it, 

Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and 
slowly  grow 

To  a full  face,  there  like  a sun  remain 
Fix’d  — then  as  slowly  fade  again, 
And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was 
before ; 

So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 

Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VII. 

As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 
Roof’d  the  world  with  doubt  and 
fear, 

Floating  thro’  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky  ; 

In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passion- 
less, 

Touch’d  by  thy  spirit’s  mellowness, 
Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 
In  a silent  meditation, 

Falling  into  a still  delight, 

And  luxury  of  contemplation  : 

As  waves  that  up  a quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 

With  motions  of  the  outer  sea : 

And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 

His  bow-string  slacken’d,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding 
thee, 

And  so  would  languish  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VIII. 

But  when  I see  thee  roam,  with  tresses 
unconfined, 

While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 
Breathes  low  between  the  sunset 
and  the  moon ; 

Or,  in  a shadowy  saloon, 

On  silken  cushions  half  reclined ; 


I watch  thy  grace ; and  in  its 
place 

My  heart  a charm’d  slumber 
keeps, 

While  I muse  upon  thy  face ; 
And  a languid  fire  creeps 

Thro’  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  : soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  my  name 
Floweth ; and  then,  as  in  a sWoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are 
rife, 

My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I lose  my  color,  I lose  my  breath, 
I drink  the  cup  of  a costly  death, 
Brimm’d  with  delirious  draughts  of 
warmest  life. 

I die  with  my  delight,  before 
I hear  what  I would  hear  from 
thee ; 

Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I would  be  dying  evermore, 

So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


My  life  is  full  of  weary  days, 

But  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 
Nor  wander’d  into  other  ways  : 

I have  not  lack’d  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I go  : 
Shake  hands  once  more  : I cannot  sink 
So  far  — far  down,  but  I shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 

ii. 

When  in  the  darkness  over  me 

The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape, 
Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree, 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful 
crape, 

But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery 
gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 


28 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


And  thro’  damp  holts  new-flushed 
with  may, 

Ring  sudden  scritches  of  the  jay, 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will, 
And  on  my  clay  her  darnel  grow ; 
Come  only,  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow. 


EARLY  SONNETS. 

i. 

TO  . 

As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse 
and  brood, 

And  <*bb  into  a former  life,  or  seem 

To  lapse  far  back  in  some  confused 
dream 

To  states  of  mystical  similitude  ; 

If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his 
chair, 

Ever  the  wonder  waxeth  more  and 
more, 

So  that  we  say,  “ All  this  hath  been 
before, 

All  this  hath  been,  I know  not  when 
or  where.” 

So,  friend,  when  first  I look’d  upon 
your  face, 

Our  thought  gave  answer  each  to  each, 
so  true  — 

Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each — 

That  tho’  I knew  not  in  what  time  or 
place, 

Methought  that  I had  often  met  with 
you, 

And  either  lived  in  either’s  heart  and 
speech. 

ii. 

TO  J.  M.  K. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  — thou 
wilt  be 

A latter  Luther,  and  a soldier-priest 

To  scare  church-harpies  from  the 
master’s  feast; 

Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need 
of  thee  : 

Thou  art  no  sabbath-drawler  of  old 
saws, 


Distill’d  from  some  worm-canker’d 
homily  ; 

But  spurr’d  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 

To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy 
cause 

With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 

The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit- 
drone 

Half  God’s  good  sabbath,  while  the 
worn-out  clerk 

Brow-beats  his  desk  below.  Thou 
from  a throne 

Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the 
dark 

Arrows  of  lightnings.  I will  stand  and 
mark. 

hi. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit,  full 
and  free, 

Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down 
alone, 

With  the  self-same  impulse  wherewith 
he  was  thrown 

From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing 
lea : — 

Which  with  increasing  might  doth  for- 
ward flee 

By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape, 
and  isle, 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 

Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many 
a mile. 

Mine  be  the  power  which  ever  to  its 
sway 

Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by 
degrees 

May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow  ; 

Ev’n  as  the  warm  gulf-stream  of 
Florida 

Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 

The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mex- 
ico. 

IY. 

ALEXANDER. 

Warrior  of  God,  whose  strong  right 
arm  debased 

The  throne  of  Persia,  when  her  Satrap 
bled 

At  Issus  by  the  Syrian  gates,  or  fled 

Beyond  the  Memmian  naphtha-pits, 
disgraced 


jzaRLY  sonnets. 


29 


Forever  — thee  (thy  pathway  sand- 
erased) 

Gliding  with  equal  crowns  two  ser- 
pents led 

Joyful  to  that  palm-planted  fountain- 
fed 

Ammonian  Oasis  in  the  waste. 

There  in  a silent  shade  of  laurel  brown 

Apart  the  Chamian  Oracle  divine 

Shelter'd  his  unapproached  mysteries  : 

High  things  were  spoken  there,  un- 
handed down ; 

Only  they  saw  thee  from  the  secret 
shrine 

Returning  with  hot  cheek  and  kindled 
eyes. 

v. 

BUONAPARTE. 

He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn 
hearts  of  oak, 

Madman ! — to  chain  with  chains,  and 
bind  with  bands 

That  island  queen  who  sways  the  floods 
and  lands, 

From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight 
woke, 

When  from  her  wooden  walls,  — lit  by 
sure  hands,  — 

With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings, 
and  with  smoke,  — 

Peal  after  peal,  the  British  battle 
broke, 

Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic 
sands. 

We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when 
Elsinore 

Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant 
sea, 

Rocking  with  shatter'd  spars,  with 
sudden  fires 

Flamed  over:  at  Trafalgar  yet  once 
more 

We  taught  him : late  he  learned 
humility 

Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon 
school’d  with  briers. 

VI. 

POLAND. 

How  long,  O God,  shall  men  be  ridden 
down, 


And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and 
least 

Of  men  7 The  heart  of  Poland  hath 
not  ceased 

To  quiver,  tho’  her  sacred  blood  doth 
drown 

The  fields,  and  out  of  every  smoulder- 
ing town 

Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  in- 
creased, 

Till  that  o’ergrown  Barbarian  in  the 
East 

Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some 
new  crown : — 

Cries  to  Thee,  “ Lord,  how  long  shall 
these  things  be  7 

How  long  this  icy-hearted  Muscovite 

Oppress  the  region  7 ” Us,  O Just  and 
Good, 

Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn 
in  three ; 

Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should 
aid  the  right  — 

A matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of 
blood ! 

VII. 

Caress’d  or  chidden  by  the  slender 
hand, 

And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that, 

Light  Hope  at  Beauty’s  call  would 
perch  and  stand, 

And  run  thro’  every  change  of  sharp 
and  flat ; 

And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillo  w sat, 

When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy 
band, 

And  chased  away  the  still-recurring 
gnat, 

And  woke  her  with  a lay  from  fairy 
land. 

But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less 
and  less, 

For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders 
far, 

Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love’s  delicious 
creeds ; 

And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness, 

Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a single 
star, 

That  sets  at  twilight  in  a land  of 
reeds. 


30 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


VIII. 

The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 

A nobler  yearning  never  broke  her 
rest 

Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly 
drest, 

And  win  ail  eyes  with  all  accomplish- 
ment : 

Yet  in  the  whirling  dances  as  we  wrent, 

My  fancy  made  me  for  a moment  blest 

To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous 
breast 

That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  con- 
tent. 

A#moment  came  the  tenderness  of 
tears, 

The  phantom  of  a wish  that  once  could 
move, 

A ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles  re- 
store — 

For  ah  ! the  slight  coquette,  she  can- 
not love, 

And  if  you  kiss’d  her  feet  a thousand 
years, 

She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and 
care  no  more. 

IX. 

Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take 
the  cast 

Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near 
thee  lie  ? 

0 sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the 

past, 

In  painting  some  dead  friend  from 
memory  ? 

Weep  on  : beyond  his  object  Love  can 
last : 

His  object  lives  : more  cause  to  weep 
have  I : 

My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing 
fast, 

No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love 
can  die. 

1 pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup, 

Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she 

sits  — 

Ah  pity  — hint  it  not  in  human  tones, 

But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it 
up 


With  secret  death  forever,  in  the  pits 

Which  some  green  Christmas  crams 
with  weary  bones. 

x. 

If  I were  loved,  as  I desire  to  be, 

What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of 
the  earth, 

And  range  of  evil  between  death  and 
birth, 

That  I should  fear,  — if  I were  loved 
by  thee  ? 

All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of 
pain 

Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave, 
if  thou  wert  mine, 

As  I have  heard  that,  somewhere  in 
the  main, 

Fresh- water  springs  come  up  through 
bitter  brine. 

’Twere  joy,  not  fear,  claspt  hand-in- 
hand  with  thee, 

To  wait  for  death  — mute  — careless 
of  all  ills, 

Apart  upon  a mountain,  tho’  the  surge 

Of  some  new  deluge  from  a thousand 
hills 

Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into 
the  gorge 

Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 

XI. 

THE  BRIDESMAID. 

O bridesmaid,  ere  the  happy  knot 
was  tied, 

Thine  eyes  so  wept  that  they  could 
hardly  see ; 

Thy  sister  smiled  and  said,  “No  tears 
for  me  ! 

A happy  bridesmaid  makes  a happy 
bride.” 

And  then,  the  couple  standing  side  by 
side, 

Love  lighted  down  between  them  full 
of  glee, 

And  over  his  left  shoulder  laugh’d  at 
thee, 

“ 0 happy  bridesmaid,  make  a happy 
bride.” 

And  all  at  once  a pleasant  truth  I 
learn’d, 


Page  32. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


31 


For  while  the  tender  service  made  thee 
weep, 

I loved  thee  for  the  tear  thou  couldst 
not  hide, 

And  prest  thy  hand,  and  knew  the 
press  return’d, 

And  thought,  “ My  life  is  sick  of  sin- 
gle sleep : 

0 happy  bridesmaid,  make  a happy 
bride ! ” 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

PART  I. 

On  either  side  of  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 

That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky  ; 
And  thro’  the  field  the  road  runs  by 
To  many-tower’d  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below 
The  island  of  Shalott. 

"Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro’  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a space  of  flowers, 

And  the  silent  isle  embowers 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil’d, 

Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail’d. 

By  slow  horses  ; and  unhail’d 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail’d 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 

Hear  a song  that  echoes  chcerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower’d  Camelot : 

And  by  the  moon  the'  reaper  weary, 


Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  “ ’Tis  the  fairy 
Lady  of  Shalott.” 

PART  II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A magic  web  with  colors  gay. 

She  has  heard  a whisper  say, 

A curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 

She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 

And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro’  a mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 

There  she  sees  the  highway  near 
Winding  down  to  Camelot . 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 

And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 
Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a curly  shepherd-lad, 

Or  long-hair’d  page  in  crimson  clad, 
Goes  by  to  tower’d  Camelot  ; 
And  sometimes  thro’  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two  ; 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror’s  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro’  the  silent  nights 
A funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 
And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 

“ I am  half  sick  of  shadows,”  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III. 

A bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro’  the  leaves 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 


32 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


A red-cross  knight  forever  kneel’d 
To  a lady  in  his  shield, 

That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter’d  free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 

The  bridle  hells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot  : 
And  from  his  blazon’d  baldric  slung 
A mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 

And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-je  well’d  shone  the  saddle- 
leather, 

The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn’d  like  one  burningflame  together, 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro’  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight 
glow’d ; 

On  burnish’d  hooves  his  war-horse 
trode ; 

From  underneath  his  helmet  flow’d 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash’d  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
“Tirra  lirra,”  by  the  river 
Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro’  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 
She  look’d  down  to  Camelot. 

Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  ; 
Tbe  mirror  crack’d  from  side  to  side ; 
“ The  curse  is  come  upon  me,”  cried 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 


The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  com- 
plaining, 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining, 

Over  tower’d  Camelot ; 

Down  she  came  and  found  a boat 
Beneath  a willow  left  afloat, 

And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river’s  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 

With  a glassy  countenance 
Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 

And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white, 

That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro’  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 

Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 

And  her  eyes  were  darken’d  wholly, 
Turn’d  to  tower’d  Camelot. 

For  ere  she  reach’d  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony. 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 
Silent  into  Camelot. 

Out  upou  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her 
name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ? and  what  is  here  1 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


33 


Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer  ; 

And  they  cross’d  themselves  for  fear, 
All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 

But  Lancelot  mused  a little  space ; 

He  said,  “ She  has  a lovely  face ; 

God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.” 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

A still  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 

“ Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 

Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ? ” 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I said ; 
“Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made.” 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply ; 

“ To-day  I saw  the  dragon-fly 
Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

“ An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk : from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail 

“ He  dried  his  wings : like  gauze  they 
grew  ; 

Thro’  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A living  flash  of  light  he  flew.” 

I said,  “ When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro’  five  cycles  ran, 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

“ She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast.” 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied; 

“ Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride  : 
Look  up  thro’night : the  world  is  wide. 

“ This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 
That  in  a boundless  universe 
Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

“ Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and 
fears 

Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  ? ” 


It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind  : 

“ Tho’  thou  wert  scatter’d  to  the  wind, 
Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind."1 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall  : 
“No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all.” 

To  which  he  answer’d  scoffingly  ; 

“ Good  soul ! suppose  I grant  it  thee, 
Who’ll  weep  for  thy  deficiency"? 

“ Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense, 
When  thy  peculiar  difference 
Is  cancell’d  in  the  world  of  sense  ? ” 

I would  have  said,  “ Thou  canst  not 
know,” 

But  my  full  heart,  that  work’d  below, 
Rain’d  thro’  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me : 

“ Thou  art  so  steep’d  in  misery, 
Surely  ’twere  better  not  to  be. 

“ Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 
Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep  : 

Thou  canst  not  think,  but  thou  wilt 
weep.” 

I said,  “ The  years  with  change  ad- 
vance : 

If  I make  dark  my  countenance, 

I shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

“ Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might 
take, 

Ev’n  yet.”  But  he  : “ What  drug  can 
make 

A wither’d  palsy  cease  to  shake  ? ” 

I wept,  “Tho’  I should  die,  I know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted. snow ; 

“ And  men,  thro’  novel  spheres  of 
thought 

Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I am  not.” 


34 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


“Yet,”  said  the  secret  voice,  “some 
time, 

Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

“ Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for 
light, 

Ilapt  after  heaven’s  starry  flight, 
Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and 
night. 

“ Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells, 
The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells, 

The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells.” 

I said  that  “ all  the  years  invent ; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

“ Were  this  not  well, to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho’  watching  from  a ruin’d  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power?  ” 

“ The  highest-mounted  mind,”  he  said, 
“ Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

“ Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main  ? 

“ Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold 
crown 

And  crystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and 
town  ? 

“ Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 
Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge, dream’d  not  yet. 

“ Thou  hast  not  gain’d  a real  height, 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

“ ’Twere  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak, 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak, 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

“ Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 
Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  re- 
sign’d, 

A healthy  frame,  a quiet  mind.” 


I said,  “ When  I am  gone  away, 

‘ He  dared  not  tarry,’  men  will  say, 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay.” 

“ This  is  more  vile,”  he  made  reply, 
“To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  liYe  and 
sigh, 

Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

“ Sick  art  thou  — a divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a coward  still. 

“ Do  men  love  theb  ? Art  thou  so 
bound 

To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  ? 

“ The  memory  of  the  wither’d  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner’d  Autumn-sheaf. 

“ Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust; 

The  right  ear,  that  is  fill’d  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just.” 

“ Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,”  I cried, 
“ From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride ! 

“ Nay  — rather  yet  that  I could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm’d  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I yearn’d  for  human  praise. 

“ When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of 
tongue, 

Among  the  tents  I paused  and  sung, 
The  distant  battle  flash’d  and  rung. 

“ I sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear, 

And,  sitting,  burnish’d  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear— 

“Waiting  to  strive  a happy  strife, 

To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife, 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

“ Some  hidden  principle  to  move, 

To  put  together,  part  and  prove, 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and 
love  — 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


35 


“ As  far  as  might  he,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt, 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb 
about  — 

“ To  search  through  all  I felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law : 

“ At  least,  not  rotting  like  a weed, 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed, 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

“To  pass  when  Life  her  light  with- 
draws, 

Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  in  a merely  selfish  cause  — 

“ In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor’d,  known, 
And  like  a warrior  overthrown ; 

“ Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious 
tears, 

When  soil’d  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country’s  war-song  thrill  his  ears  : 

“ Then  dying  of  a mortal  stroke, 
What  time  the  foeman’s  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  rolled  in  smoke.” 

“ Yea  ! ” said  the  voice,  “ thy  dream 
was  good, 

While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 

It  was  the  stirring  of  the'  blood. 

“ If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower, 

Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour  ? 

“ Then  comes  the  check,  the  change, 
the  fall, 

Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

“Yet  hadst  thou,  thro’  enduring  pain, 
Link’d  month  to  month  with  such  a 
chain 

Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

“ Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and 
birth 

Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 

So  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 


j “ That  men  with  knowledge  merely 
play’d, 

I told  thee  — hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho’  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade  ; 

“ Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and 
blind, 

Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to 
find, 

That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

“ For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and 
soon 

Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

“ Cry,  faint  not : either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 

Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

“ Cry,  faint  not,  climb  : the  summits 
slope 

Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope, 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to 
cope. 

“ Sometimes  a little  corner  shines, 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 
A gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

“ I will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 

I shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 

Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

“ If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 
Thou  know’st  not.  Shadows  thou 
dost  strike, 

Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like ; 

“ And  owning  but  a little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a little  lower 

“ Than  angels.  Cease  to  wail  and 
brawl ! 

Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all.” 

“ O dull,  one-sided  voice,”  said  I, 

“ Wilt  thou  make  every  thing  a lie, 

To  flatter  me  that  I may  die  7 


36 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


“ I know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

“ I cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven  : 

“ Who, rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 

And  did  not  dream  it  was  a dream  ; 

“ But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev’n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 

The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — 

“ Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Bore  and  forebore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

“ He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 

Tho’  cursed  and  scorn’d,  and  bruised 
with  stones  : 

“But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace, 
He  pray’d,  and  from  a happy  place 
God’s  glory  smote  him  on  the  face.” 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt : 

,£  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were 
fix’d, 

The  elements  were  kindlier  mix’d.” 

I said,  “ I toil  beneath  the  curse, 

But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 

I fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

“ And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo, 

One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 

I knit  a hundred  others  new : 

“ Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense, 

Be  fix’d  and  froz’n  to  permanence  : 

“ For  I go,  weak  from  suffering  here  : 
Naked  I go,  and  void  of  cheer  : 

What  is  it  that  I may  not  fear  ? ” 


“ Consider  well,”  the  voice  replied, 

“ His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath 
died ; 

Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain  or  pride  ? 

“ Will  he  obey  when  one  commands  ? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands  ? 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

“ His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast : 
There  is  no  other  thing  express’d 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

“ His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek : 
Tho’  one  should  smite  him  on  the 
cheek, 

And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

“ His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss’d,  taking  his  last  embrace, 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race  — 

“ His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame, — 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

“ He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave, 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

“ High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim  : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim  : 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him.” 

“ If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,”  I said, 
“ These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and 
dread, 

; Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

“ The  sap  dries  up : the  plant  declines. 
A deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  I not  Death  1 the  outward  signs  'i 

“ I found  him  when  my  years  were  few ; 
A shadow  on  the  graves  I knew, 

And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

“ From  grave  to  grave  the  shadow 
crept : 

In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept : 

I Touch’d  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


37 


“ The  simple  senses  crown’d  his  head : 
1 Omega ! thou  art  Lord/  they  said, 
‘We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.’ 

“ Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ea^e, 
Should  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by 
these, 

Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease  ? 

“ Who  forged  that  other  influence, 
That  heat  of  inward  evidence, 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  1 

“ He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 

That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 

Not  simple  as  a thing  that  dies. 

“ Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly  : 
His  heart  forebodes  a mystery  : 

He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

“ That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 

He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

“ He  seems  to  hear  a Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro’  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A labor  working  to  an  end. 

“ The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason  : many  things  perplex, 
With  motions,  checks,  and  counter- 
checks. 

“ He  knows  a baseness  in  his  blood 
At  such  strange  war  with  something 
good, 

Hq  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 

“ Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn, 
Half  shown,  are  broken  and  with- 
drawn. 

“ Ah  ! sure  within  him  and  without, 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out, 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

“ But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain, 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 


“ The  doubt  would  rest,  I dare  not 
solve. 

In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve.” 

As  when  a billow,  blown  against, 
Falls  back,  the  voice  with  which  I 
fenced 

A little  ceased,  but  recommenced. 

“ Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father 
play’d 

In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 

A merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade  ? 

“ A merry  boy  they  call’d  him  then. 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 

“ Before  the  little  ducts  began 
To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 
Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man : 

“ Who  took  a wife,  who  rear’d  his  race, 
Whose  wrinkles  gather’d  on  his  face, 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days : 

“A  life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth, 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  ! ” 

“ These  words,”  I said,  “ are  like  the 
rest ; 

No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 

“ But  if  I grant,  thou  mightst  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend  — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end ; 

“Yet  how  should  I for  certain  hold 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 

That  I first  was  in  human  mould  i 

“ I cannot  make  this  matter  plain, 

But  I would  shoot,  howe’er  in  vain, 

A random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

“ It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found, 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 


38 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


“ As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 
The  slipping  thro’  from  state  to  state. 

“As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then, 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

“ So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 
As  one  before,  remember  much, 

For  those  two  likes  might  meet  and 
touch. 

“But  if  I lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace; 

“ Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 
In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of 
night ; 

“Or  if  thro’  lower  lives  I came  — 
Tho’  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

“ I might  forget  my  weaker  lot ; 

For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot  ? 

The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

“ And  men,  whose  reason  long  was 
blind, 

From  cells  of  madness  unconfined, 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

“ Much  more,  if  first  I floated  free, 

As  naked  essence,  must  I be 
Incompetent  of  memory: 

“ For  memory  dealing  but  with  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime  ? 

“ Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

“Of  something  felt,  like  something 
here ; 

Of  something  done,  I know  not  where  ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare.” 


The  still  voice  laugh’d.  “ I talk,” 
said  he, 

“ Not  with  thy  dreams.  Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a reality.” 

“ But  thou,”  said  I,  “ hast  missed  thy 
mark, 

Who  sought’st  to  wreck  thy  mortal 
ark. 

By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 

“ Why  not  set  forth,  if  I should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new  ? 

“ Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human 
breath 

Has  ever  truly  long’d  for  death. 

“’Tis  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are 
scant, 

Oh  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant ; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I want.” 

I ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 

Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn, 
“Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn.” 

And  I arose,  and  I released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften’d  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal, 

The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God’s  house  the  people  prest : 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest. 
Each  enter’d  like  a welcome  guest. 

One  walk’d  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measured  footfall  firm  and  mild, 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean’d  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure, 

The  little  maiden  walk’d  demure, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure- 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


39 


These  three  made  unity  so  sweet, 

My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I blest  them,  and  they  wander’d  on : 

I spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none : 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A murmur,  “ Be  of  better  cheer.” 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 
A notice  faintly  understood, 

“ I see  the  end,  and  know  the  good.” 

A little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A hint,  a whisper  breathing  low, 

“ I may  not  speak  of  what  I know.” 

Like  an  Aeolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes  : 

Such  seem’d  the  whisper  at  my  side  : 
“ What  is  it  thou  knowest,  sweet 
voice  ” I cried. 

A hidden  hope,”  the  voice  replied : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a power 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  from  the 
shower, 

To  feel,  altho’  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I went, 

And  Nature’s  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I wonder’d  at  the  bounteous  hours, 
The  slow  result  of  winter  showers  : 
You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for 
flowers. 

I wonder’d  while  I paced  along  : 

The  woods  were  fill’d  so  full  with  song, 
There  seem’d  no  room  for  sense  of 
wrong ; 


And  all  so  variously  wrought, 

I marvell’d  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought ; 

And  wherefore  rather  I made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Than  him  that  said,  “ Rejoice ! Re- 
joice ! ” 


THE  MILLER’S  DAUGHTER. 

I see  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size, 

And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 
The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  1 

The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 
His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl’d, 

Seem’d  half-within  and  half-without, 
And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 

In  yonder  chair  I see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver 
cup  — 

I see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 
At  his  own  jest  — gray  eyes  lit  up 

With  summer  lightnings  of  a soul 
So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 

So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and 
whole, 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  : give  me  one  kiss  : 
My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 

There’s  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 
Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 

There’s  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 
But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 

Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 
That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I not  found  a happy  earth  1 
I least  should  breathe  a thought  of 
pain. 

Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 
I’d  almost  live  my  life  again. 

So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 
And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 

It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 


40 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.. 


To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 
Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 
Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire  : 
For  even  here,  where  I and  you 
Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro’ 
By  some  wild  skylark’s  matin  song. 

And  oft  I heard  the  tender  dove 
In  firry  woodlands  making  moan ; 
But  ere  I saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I had  no  motion  of  my  own. 

For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play’d 
Before  I dream’d  that  pleasant 
dream  — 

Still  hither  thither  idly  sway’d 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the 
stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I leanVl  to  hear 
The  milldam  rushing  down  with 
noise, 

And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 
In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 
Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones, 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that 
hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 
When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
(’Twas  April  then),  I came  and  sat 
Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their 
buds 

Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 

I cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 
But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A love-song  I had  somewhere  read, 
Ail  echo  from  a measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 
From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 
With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a thousand 
times. 


Then  leapt  a trout.  In  lazy  mood 
I watch’d  the  little  circles  die ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a vision  caught  my  eye ; 
The  reflex  of  a beauteous  form, 

A glowing  arm,  a gleaming  neck, 
As  when  a sunbeam  wavers  warm 
Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set. 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge 
A long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the 
ledge : 

And  when  I raised  my  eyes,  above 
They  met  with  two  so  full  and 
bright  — 

Such  eyes  ! I swear  to  you,  my  love, 
That  these  have  never  lost  their 
light. 

I loved,  and  love  dispell’d  the  fear 
That  I should  die  an  early  death  : 
For  love  possess’d  the  atmosphere, 
And  fill’d  the  breast  with  purer 
breath. 

My  mother  thought,  What  ails  the 
boy  ? 

For  I was  alter’d,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 
And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Thro’  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 

The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten’d  floor, 
The  dark  round  of  the  dripping 
wheel, 

The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 
When  April  nights  began  to  blow', 
And  April’s  crescent  glimmer’d  cold, 
I saw  the  village  lights  below ; 

I knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I came,  and  lay 
Upon  the  freshly-flower’d  slope; 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


41 


The  deep  brook  groan’d  beneath  the 
mill ; 

And  “by  that  lamp,”  I thought, 
“ she  sits  ! ” 

The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 
Gleam’d  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
“ O that  I were  beside  her  now ! 

0 will  she  answer  if  I call  l. 

( ) would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 
Sweet  Alice,  if  I told  her  all  % ” 

Sometimes  I saw  you  sit  and  spin  : 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I heard  you  sing  within ; 
Sometimes  your  shadow  cross’d  the 
blind. 

At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 
And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair  ^ 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darken’d  there. 

But  when  at  last  I dared  to  speak, 
The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white 
with  may, 

Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your 
cheek 

Flush’d  like  the  coming  of  the  day  ; 
And  so  it  was — half-sly,  half-shy, 
You  would,  and  would  not,  little 
one ! 

Although  I pleaded  tenderly, 

And  you  and  I were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 
To  yield  consent  to  my  desire : 

She  wish’d  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

1 might  have  look’d  a little  higher ; 
And  I was  young  — too  young  to  wed : 

“ Yet  must  I love  her  for  your  sake ; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,”  she  said : 
Her  eyelid  quiver’d  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I went  to  fetch  my  bride : 
But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 
Too  fearful  that  you  should  not 
please. 

I loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall’n  in 
tears, 

I kiss’d  away  before  they  fell. 


I watch’d  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not 
see ; 

She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 
And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me  ; 
And  turning  look’d  upon  your  face, 
As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 
And  rose,  and,  with  a silent  grace 
Approaching,  press’d  you  heart  to 
heart. 

Ah,  well  — but  sing  the  foolish  song 
I gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  — that  I may  seem. 
As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream, 
While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper 

by. 

It  is  the  miller’s  daughter 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear. 
That  I would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  in  her  ear  : 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I’d  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white 

And  I would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty  dainty  wraist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I’d  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I would  be  the  necklace, 

And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 
Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I scarce  should  be  unclasp’d  at  night. 

A trifle,  sweet ! which  true  love  spells  — 
True  love  interprets  — right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 

So,  if  I waste  words  now,  in  truth 
You  must  blame  Love.  His  early 
rage 

Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth, 
And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 
Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in 
one, 


FA  TIMA. 


^fZ 


Do  make  a garland  for  the  heart : 
So  sing  that  other  song  I made, 
Half-anger’d  with  my  happy  lot, 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 
I found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget? 

Many  suns  arise  and  set. 

Many  a chance  the  years  beget. 

Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 

Love  is  made  a vague  regret. 

Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 

Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 

What  is  love?  for  we  forget : 

Ah,  no ! no ! 

Look  thro’  mine  eyes  with  thine.  True 
wife, 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  in- 
twine 

My  other  dearer  life  in  life. 

Look  thro’  my  very  soul  with  thine ! 
Untouch’d  with  any  shade  of  years, 
May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a many  tears, 
Dear  eyes,  since  first  I knew  them 
well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed:  they  had  their 
part 

Of  sorrow : for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again, 

And  left  a want  unknown  before ; 
Although  the  loss  has  brought  us  pain, 
That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more, 

With  farther  lookings  on.  The  kiss, 
The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 
The  comfort,  I have  found  in  thee  : 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  — who 
wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or 
thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can 
find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 


For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 
Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 
Touching  the  sullen  pool  below : 

On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 
Is  dry  and  dewless.  Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 

0 Love,  Love,  Love!  0 withering- 
might  ! 

0 sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I strain  my  sight, 
Throbbing  thro’  all  thy  heat  and  light, 

Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo,  parch’d  and  wither’d,  deaf  and 
blind, 

I whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city’s  eastern  towers : 

1 thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers  : 
I roll’d  among  the  tender  flowers  : 

I crush’d  them  on  my  breast,  my 
mouth ; 

I look’d  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his 
name, 

From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and 
came 

A thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver’d  in  my  narrow  frame. 

0 Love,  0 fire  ! once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul 
thro’ 

My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I know 
He  cometh  quickly  : from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens, 
blow 

Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 

In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to 
swoon, 

Faints  like  a dazzled  morning  moon 

The  wind  sounds  like  a silver  wire, 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a fire 


CENONE. 


43 


Is  pour’d  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire  ; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 
My  heart,  pierced  thro’  with  fierce 
delight, 

Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 

All  naked  in  a sultry  sky, 

Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 

I will  possess  him  or  will  die. 

I will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face, 
Die,  dying  clasp’d  in  his  embrace. 


CENONE. 

There  lies  a vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart 
the  glen, 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from 
pine  to  pine, 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.  On  either 
hand 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  mid- 
way down 

Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below 
them  roars 

The  long  brook  falling  thro’  the 
clov’n  ravine 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning:  but 
in  front 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 

Troas  and  Ilion’s  column’d  citadel, 

The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 

Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 

Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the 
hills. 

Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 
her  neck 

Floated  her  hair  or  seem’d  to  float  in 
rest. 

She,  leaning  on  a fragment  twined 
with  vine, 

Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain- 
shade 

Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 
upper  cliff. 


“O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d 
Ida, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the 
hill : 

The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass  . 

The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the 
stone, 

Rests  like  a shadow,  and  the  winds 
are  dead. 

The  purple  flower  droops : the  golden 
bee 

Is  lily-cradled  : I alone  awake. 

My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of 
love, 

My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes 
are  dim, 

And  I am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

“ 0 mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d 
Ida, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Hear  me,  0 Earth,  hear  me,  O Hills, 
O Caves 

That  house  the  cold  crown’d  snake ! O 
mountain  brooks, 

I am  the  daughter  of  a River  God, 

Hear  me,  for  I will  speak,  and  build 
up  all 

My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder 
walls 

Rose  slowly  to  a music  slowly 
breathed, 

A cloud  that  gather’d  shape:  for  it 
may  be 

That,  while  I speak  of  it,  a little  while 

My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper 
woe. 

“ O mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d 
Ida, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

I waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills. 

Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy- 
dark, 

And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain 
pine  : 

Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 

Leading  a jet-black  goat  white-horn’d, 
white-hooved, 

Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 


44 


(ENONE. 


“ O mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Far-off:  the  torrent  call’d  me  from  the 
cleft : 

Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 

The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.  With 
down-dropt  eyes 

I sat  alone  : white-breasted  like  a star 

Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved ; a leop- 
ard skin 

Droop’d  from  his  shoulder,  but  his 
sunny  hair 

Cluster’d  about  his  temples  like  a 
God’s  : 

And  his  cheek  brighten’d  as  the  foam- 
bow  brightens 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and 
all  my  heart 

Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming 
ere  he  came. 

“Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk- 
white  palm 

Disclosed  a fruit  of  pure  Hesperian 
gold, 

That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I 
look’d 

And  listen’d,  the  full-flowing  river  of 
speech  * 

Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

“ ‘ My  own  CEnone, 

Beautiful-brow’d  CEnone,  my  own  soul, , 

Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 
ingrav’n 

“For  the  most  fair,”  would  seem  to 
award  it  thine, 

As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 

The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 

Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  mar- 
ried brows.’ 

“ Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 

And  added  ‘ This  was  cast  upon  the 
board, 

When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of 
the  Gods 

Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus  ; where- 
upon 

Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom 
’twere  due : 


But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester- 
eve, 

Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common 
voice 

Elected  umpire,  Here  comes  to-day, 

Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 

This  meed  of  fairest.  Thou,  within 
the  cave 

Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldec  i 
pine, 

Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld, 
unheard 

Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of 
Gods.’ 

“ Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

It  was  the  deep  midnoon : one  silvery 
cloud 

Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney 
sides 

Of  this  long  glen.  Then  to  the  bower 
they  came, 

Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth- 
swarded  bower, 

And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like 
fire, 

Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 

Lotos  and  lilies  : and  a wind  arose, 

And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and 
vine, 

This  way  and  that,  in  many  a wild 
festoon 

Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled 
boughs 

With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro’ 
and  thro’. 

“ 0 mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die 

On  the  tree-tops  a crested  peacock  lit, 

And  o’er  him  flow’d  a golden  cloud, 
and  lean’d 

Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant 
dew. 

Then  first  I heard  the  voice  of  her,  to 
whom 

Coming  thro’  Heaven,  like  a light  that 
grows 

Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the 
Gods 

Rise  up  for  reverence.  She  to  Paris 
made 


CENONE. 


45 


Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestioned  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  * from 
many  a vale 

And  river-sunder’d  champaign  clothed 
with  corn, 

Or  labor’d  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,’  she  said,  £ and  homage,  tax 
and  toll, 

From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 
large, 

Mast-tlxrong’d  beneath  her  shadowing 
citadel 

In  glassy  bays  among  lief  tallest 
towers.’ 

“ O mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake 
of  power, 

‘ Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 
Power  fitted  to  the  season ; wisdom 
bred 

And  throned  of  wisdom  — from  all 
neighbor  crowns 

Alliance  and  Allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.  Such 
boon  from  me, 

From  me,  Heaven’s  Queen,  Paris,  to 
thee  king-born, 

A shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king- 
born, 

Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing 
men  in  power 

Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain’d 
Rest  in  a happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.’ 

“Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly 
fruit 

Out  at  arm’s-length,  so  much  the 
thought  of  power 

Flatter’d  his  spirit ; but  Pallas  where 
she  stood 

Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared 
limbs 

O’erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed 
spear 

Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest 
eye 


Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry 
cheek 

Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made 
reply. 

“ ‘ Self-reverence,  self-knowledge, 
self-control, 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sover 
eign  power. 

Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncall’d  for)  but  to  live 
by  law, 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear ; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow 
right 

Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  conse- 
quence.’ 

“Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die 
Again  she  said  : ‘ I woo  thee  not  with 
gifts. 

Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.  Judge  thou  me  by  what  I 
am, 

So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 

If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of 
fair, 

Unbiass’d  by  self-profit,  oh ! rest  thee 
sure 

That  I shall  love  thee  wrell  and  cleave 
to  thee, 

So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a 
God’s, 

To  push  thee  forward  thro’  a life  of 
shocks, 

Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance 
grow 

Sinew’d  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 
will, 

Circled  thro’  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.’ 

“ Here  she  ceas’d, 
And  Paris  ponder’d,  and  I cried,  ‘O 
Paris, 

Give  it  to  Pallas ! ’ but  he  heard  me 
not, 

Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is 
me ! 


46 


CENONE. 


“O  mother  Ida,  many-f  ountain’dlda, 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 

Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in 
Paphian  we) Is, 

With  rosy  slender  fingers  baekward 
drew 

From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 
deep  hair 

Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid 
throat 

And  shoulder  • from  the  violets  her 
light  foot 

Shone  rosy-white,  and  o’er  her  rounded 
form 

Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine- 
bunches 

Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she 
moved. 


“Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

She  with  a subtle  smile  in  her  mild 
eyes, 

The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing 
nigh 

Half-whisper’d  in  his  ear,  ‘ I promise 
thee 

The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in 
Greece,’ 

She  spoke  and  laugh’d  : I shut  my 
sight  for  fear  : 

But  when  I look’d,  Paris  had  raised 
his  arm, 

And  I beheld  great  Here’s  angry  eyes, 

As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 

And  I was  left  alone  within  the  bower  ; 

And  from  that  time  to  this  I am  alone, 

And  I shall  be  alone  until  I die. 

“Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Fairest  — why  fairest  wife  ? am  I not 
fair1? 

My  love  hath  told  me  so  a thousand 
times. 

Methinks  I must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 

When  I past  by,  a wild  and  wanton 
pard, 

Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  play- 
ful tail 

Crouch’d  fawning  in  the  weed.  Most 
loving  is  she  ? 


Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that 
my  arms 

Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot 
lips  prest 

Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick- 
falling dew 

Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn 
rains 

Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

“ 0 mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 

They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest 
pines, 

My  tall  dark  pines,  that  plumed  the 
craggy  ledge 

High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all 
between 

The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cata- 
ract 

Foster’d  the  callow  eaglet — from  be- 
neath 

Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the 
dark  morn 

The  panther’s  roar  came  muffled,  while 
I sat 

Low  in  the  valley.  Never,  never  more 

Shall  lone  GSnone  see  the  morning- 
mist 

Sweep  thro’  them ; never  see  them 
overlaid 

With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver 
cloud, 

Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trem 
bling  stars. 

“ 0 mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 

I wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin’d 
folds, 

Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from 
the  glens, 

Or  the  dry  thickets,  I could  meet  with 
her 

The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 

Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall, 

And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the 
board, 

And  bred  this  change  ; that  I might 
speak  my  mind, 

And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I 
hate 

Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and 
men. 


THE  SISTERS. 


47 


“ 0 mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 

Hath  lie  not  sworn  his  love  a thousand 
times, 

In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green 
hill, 

Ev’n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this 
stone  ? 

Seal’d  it  with  kisses  % water’d  it  with 
tears  ? 

0 happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to 
these ! 

0 happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see 
my  face  ? 

0 happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear 
my  weight  ? 

0 death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-float- 

ing cloud, 

There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this 
earth, 

Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to 
live  : 

1 pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of 

life, 

And  shadow  all  my  soul  that  I may 
die. 

Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart 
within, 

Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids:  let  me 
die. 

“ 0 mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 

I will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 

Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more 
and  more, 

Whereof  I catch  the  issue,  as  I hear 

Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the 
inmost  hills, 

Like  footsteps  upon  wool.  I dimly  see 

My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a 
mother 

Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her 
child 

Ere  it  is  born  : her  child ! — a shudder 
comes 

Across  me  : never  child  be  born  of  me, 

Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father’s 
eyes  ! 

“ O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 

Hear  me,  0 earth.  I will  not  die  alone, 

Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come 
to  me 


Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of 
Death 

Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 

With  the  Greek  woman.  I will  rise 
and  go 

Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars 
come  forth 

Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she 
says 

A fire  dances  before  her,  and  a sound 

Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 

What  this  may  be  I know  not,  but  1 
know 

That,  whereso’er  I am  by  night  and 
day. 

All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning 
fire.” 


THE  SISTERS. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face  : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 

They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

0 the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

She  died  : she  went  to  burning  flame  : 
She  mix’d  her  ancient  blood  with 
shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and 
tree. 

Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early 
and  late, 

To  win  his  love  I lay  in  wait : 

0 the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I made  a feast ; I bade  him  come ; 

I won  his  love,  I brought  him  home. 
The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and 
tree. 

And  after  supper,  on  a bed, 

Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head: 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

1 kiss’d  his  eyelids  into  rest : 

His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree 
I hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell. 

But  1 loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

0 the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


48 


TO  . 


I rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I stabb’d  him  thro’  and 
thro"’. 

0 the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

t curl’d  and  comb’d  his  comely  head, 
He  look’d  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 
The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and 
tree. 

I wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 

And  laid  him  at  his  mother’s  feet. 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


TO  . 

WITH  THE  FOLLOWING-  POEM. 

I send  you  here  a sort  of  allegory, 

(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a soul, 

A sinful  soul  possess’d  of  many  gifts, 

A spacious  garden  full  of  flowering 
weeds, 

A glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and 
brain, 

That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty 
seen 

In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind) 

And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty  ; or  if 
Good, 

Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 

That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge, 
are  three  sisters 

That  dote  upon  each  other,  friends  to 
man, 

Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

And  never  can  be  sunder’d  without 
tears. 

And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn 
shall  be 

Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  thresh- 
old lie 

Howling  in  outer  darkness.  Not  for 
this 

Was  common  clay  ta’en  from  the  com- 
mon earth 

Moulded  by  God,  and  temper’d  with 
the  tears 

Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 

I built  my  soul  a lordly  pleasure- 
house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 

I said,  “ 0 Soul,  make  merry  and 
carouse, 

Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well.” 

A huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  bur- 
nish’d brass 

I chose.  The  ranged  ramparts 
bright 

From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 

Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I built  it  firm.  Of  ledge  or 
shelf 

The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 

My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 

In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  “while  the  world  runs  round  and 
round,”  I said, 

“ Reign  thou  apart,  a quiet  king, 

Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stead- 
fast shade 

Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring.” 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer 
readily : 

“ Trust  me,  in  bliss  I shall  abide 

In  this  great  mansion  that  is  built  for 
me, 

So  royal-rich  and  wide.” 

* * * *■ 

* * * * 

Four  courts  I made,  East,  West  and 
South  and  North, 

In  each  a squared  lawn,  wherefrom 

The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted 
forth 

A flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there 
ran  a row 

Of  cloisters,  branch’d  like  mighty 
woods, 

Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous 
flow 

Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


49 


And  round  the  roofs  a gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant 
lands, 

Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where 
the  sky 

Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in 
one  swell 

Across  the  mountain  stream’d  below 

In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they 
fell 

Lit  up  a torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a statue 
seem’d 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 

A cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam’d 

From  out  a golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  “And  who  shall 
gaze  upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 

While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the 
sun, 

And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ? ” 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never 
fail’d, 

And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted 
higher, 

The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail’d, 

Burnt  like  a fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain’d 
and  traced, 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson 
fires 

From  shadow’d  grots  of  arches  inter- 
laced, 

And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 

* * * * 

* * * * 

Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over- vaulted  grateful  gloom, 

Thro’  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul 
did  pass, 

Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the 
palace  stood, 

All  various,  each  a perfect  whole 


From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 

And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green 
and  blue. 

Showing  a gaudy  summer-morn, 

Where  with  puff’d  cheek  the  belted 
hunter  blew 

His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem’d  all  dark  and  red  — a tract 
of  sand, 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 

Who  paced  forever  in  a glimmering 
land, 

Lit  with  a low  large  moon. 

One  show’d  an  iron  coast  and  angry 
waves. 

You  seem’d  to  hear  them  climb  and 
fall 

And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellow- 
ing caves. 

Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 

The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding 
low, 

With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry 
toil. 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves. 
Behind 

Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in 
oil, 

And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one  a foreground  black  with 
stones  and  slags, 

Beyond,  a line  of  heights,  and  fyigher 

All  barr’d  with  long  white  cloud  the 
scornful  crags, 

And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home  — gray 
twilight  pour’d 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 

Softer  than  sleep  — all  things  in  order 
stored, 

A haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 


50 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape 
fair, 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind, 

Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern, 
was  there 

Not  less  than  truth  design’d. 

* * * * 

* * * * 

Or  the  maid-mother  by  a crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm. 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardo- 
nyx 

Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a clear-wall’d  city  on  the  sea, 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  St. 
Cecily ; 

An  angel  look’d  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 
A group  of  Houris  bow’d  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and 
eyes 

That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther’s  deeply-wounded 
son 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 

And  watch’d  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 
To  list  a foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay’d  the  Ausonian 
king  to  hear 

Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail’d, 
And  many  a tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly 
sail’d 

A summer  fann’d  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa’s  mantle  blew  un- 
clasp’d, 

From  off  her  shoulder  backward 
borne : 

From  one  hand  droop’d  a crocus  : one 
hand  grasp’d 

The  mild  bull’s  golden  horn. 


Or  else  flush’d  Ganymede,  his  rosy 
thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  Eagle’s  down 

Sole  as  a flying  star  shot  thro’  the  sky 

Above  the  pillar’d  town. 

Nor  these  alone  : but  every  legend  fair 

Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 

Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was 
there, 

Not  less  than  life,  design’d. 

* * * * 

* * * *• 

Then  in  the  towers  I placed  great  bells 
that  swung, 

Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver 
sound ; 

And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men 
I hung 

The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a seraph 
strong, 

Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and 
mild  ; 

And  there  the  world-worn  Dante 
grasp’d  his  song, 

And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the 
rest; 

A million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin  ; 

A hundred  winters  snow’d  upon  his 
breast, 

From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately- 
set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 

And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 

With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann’d 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 

Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every 
land 

So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a beast  of  burden 
slow, 

Toil’d  onward,  prick’d  with  goads 
and  stings ; 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


51 


Here  play’d,  a tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break 
or  bind 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  en- 
dure, 

And  here  once  more  like  some  sick 
man  declined, 

And  trusted  any  cure. 

6 

But  over  these  she  trod:  and  those 
great  bells 

Began  to  chime.  She  took  her 
throne : 

She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 

To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro’  the  topmost  Oriels’  colored 
flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below  ; 

Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow’d  Veru- 
lam, 

The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their 
motion  were 

Full-welling  fountain-heads  of 
change, 

Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  bla- 
zon’d fair 

In  diverse  raiment  strange : 

Thro’  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber, 
emerald,  blue, 

Flush’d  in  her  temples,  and  her  eyes. 

And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from 
Memnon,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 

More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo’d 
song 

Throb  thro’  the  ribbed  stone  ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feast- 
ful mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 

Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible 
earth, 

Lord  of  the  senses  five  ; 


Communing  with  herself  : “ All  these 
are  mine, 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or 
wars, 

’Tis  one  to  me.”  She  — when  young 
night  divine 

Crown’d  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious 
toils  — - 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems, 

And  pure  quintessences  of  precious 
oils 

In  hollow’d  moons  of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven ; and  clapt  her 
hands  and  cried, 

“ I marvel  if  my  still  delight 

In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and 
wide, 

Be  flatter’d  to  the  height. 

“ 0 all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various 
eyes! 

0 shapes  and  hues  that  please  me 

well ! 

O silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I dwell ! 

“O  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1 can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 

What  time  I watch  the  darkening 

droves  of  swine 

That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

“ In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a prurient 
skin, 

They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and 
sleep ; 

And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 

And  drives  them  to  the  deep.” 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she 
prate 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 

As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish’d 
Fate; 

And  at  the  last  she  said : 

“ I take  possession  of  man’s  mind  and 
deed. 

I care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl 


52 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


I sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all.” 

* * * # 

* * * * 

Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 
Flash’d  thro’  her  as  she  sat  alone, 

Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn 
mirth, 

And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper’d  : so 
three  years 

She  prosper’d : on  the  fourth  she 
fell, 

Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in 
his  ears, 

Struck  thro’  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 
God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 

The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 

Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where’er  she 
turn’d  her  sight 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 

Wrote,  “Mene,  mene,”  apd  divided 
quite 

The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  soli- 
tude 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was 
born 

Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that 
mood 

Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

“ What ! is  not  this  my  place  of 
strength,”  she  said, 

“ My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 

Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones 
were  laid 

Since  my  first  memory  'l  ” 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 
Uncertain  shapes ; and  unawares 

On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping 
tears  of  blood, 

And  horrible  nightmares, 


And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of 
flame, 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 

On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon 
she  came, 

That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without 
light 

Or  power  of  movement,  seem’d  my 
soul, 

’Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 

Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A still  salt  pool,  lock’d  in  with  bars 
of  sand, 

Left  on  the  shore ; that  hears  all 
night 

The  plunging  seas  draw  backward 
from  the  land 

Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A star  that  with  the  choral  starry 
dance 

Join’d  not,  but  stood,  and  standing 
saw 

The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circum- 
stance 

Roll’d  round  by  one  fix’d  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had 
curl’d. 

“No  voice,”  she  shriek’d  in  that 
lone  hall, 

“ No  voice  breaks  thro’  the  stillness 
of  this  world: 

One  deep,  deep  silence  all ! ” 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth’s 
mouldering  sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 

Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 

Lost  to  her  place  and  name  ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 

But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 

No  comfort  anywhere ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with 
fears, 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 


53 


And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime  : 

Shut  up  as  in  a crumbling  tomb,  girt 
round 

With  blackness  as  a solid  wall, 

Far  off  she  seem’d  to  hear  the  dully 
sound 

Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a traveller  walk- 
ing slow, 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 

A little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea ; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder,  or  a 
sound 

Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep 
cry 

Of  great  wild  beasts ; then  thinketh, 
“ I have  found 
A new  land,  but  I die.” 

She  howl’d  aloud,  “ I am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 

What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I die'?” 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  fin- 
ished, 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 

“ Make  me  a cottage  in  the  vale,”  she 
said, 

“ Where  I may  mourn  and  pray. 

“Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers, 
that  are 

So  lightly  beautifully  built : 

Perchance  I may  return  with  others 
there 

When  I have  purged  my  guilt.” 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  YERE. 
Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

Of  me  jmu  shall  not  win  renown : 
You  thought  to  break  a country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 
I saw  the  snare,  and  I retired : 

The  daughter  of  a hundred  Earls, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 


Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

I know  you  proud  to  bear  your 
name, 

Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 
Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I 
came. 

Nor  would  I break  for  your  sweet  sake 
A heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a hundred  eoats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find. 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I could  not  stoop  to  such  a mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I could  love ; 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 

The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 
Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my 
head. 

Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 

Since  I beheld  young  Laurence 
dead. 

Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies  ! 

A great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother’s 
view, 

She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of 
you. 

Indeed  I heard  one  bitter  word 
That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Yere  de 
Yere. 

Lady  Clara  Yere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a spectre  in  your  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 
You  changed  a wholesome  heart  to 
gall. 

You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 
To  make  him  trust  his  modest 
worth, 


54 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


And,  last,  you  fix’d  a vacant  stare, 
And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us 
bent 

The  gardener  Adam  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 

Howe’er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

’Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 
And  simple  faith  than  Norman 
blood. 

I know  you,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and 
towers : 


The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 
Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 

In  glowing  health,  with  boundless 
wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 
You  needs  must  play  such  pranks 
as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Yere  de  Yere, 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 
Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  1 
Oh  ! teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read. 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 
To-morrow  ’ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day ; 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

There’s  many  a black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine ; 
There’s  Margaret  and  Mary,  there’s  Kate  and  Caroline : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say, 

So  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

I sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I shall  never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 

But  I must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

As  I came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree  1 
He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I gave  him  yesterday. 

But  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

He  thought  I was  a ghost,  mother,  for  I was  all  in  white. 

And  I ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a flash  of  light. 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I care  not  what  they  say, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

They  say  he’s  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  — what  is  that  to  me  ? 

There’s  many  a bolder  lad  ’ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 

And  you’ll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen  j v 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


55 


For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  ’ill  come  from  far  away, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov’n  its  wavy  bowers, 

And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 

And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray 
And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass ; 

There  will  not  be  a drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  ’ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  ’ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-morrow  ’ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year  : 
To-morrow  ’ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day, 

For  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

NEW-YEAR’S  EYE. 

If  you’re  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I shall  ever  see, 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i’  the  mould  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I saw  the  sun  set : he  set  and  left  behind 

The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind  ; 

And  the  New-year’s  coming  up,  mother,  but  I shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a crown  of  flowers  : we  had  a merry  day  ; 

Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May ; 

And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse, 

Till  Charles’s  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There’s  not  a flower  on  all  the  hills  : the  frost  is  on  the  pane  : 

I only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again  : 

I wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high : 

I long  to  see  a flower  so  before  the  day  I die. 

The  building  rook  ’ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  ’ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o’er  the  wave, 

But  I shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 

In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  ’ill  shine, 


36 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. \ 


Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 

When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You’ll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night; 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You’ll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you’ll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I am  lowly  laid. 

I shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  1 shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you’ll  forgive  me  now ; 

You’ll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I go ; 

Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild, 

You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

If  I can  I’ll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place ; 

Tho’  you’ll  not  see  me,  mother,  I shall  look  upon  your  face ; 

Tho’  I cannot  speak  a word,  I shall  hearken  what  you  say, 

And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I’m  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I have  said  good-night  forevermore, 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door ; 

Don’t  let  Effle  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green : 
She’ll  be  a better  child  to  you  than  ever  I have  been. 

She’ll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor  : 

Let  her  take  ’em  : they  are  hers  : I shall  never  garden  more  : 

But  tell  her,  when  I’m  gone,  to  train  the  rosebush  that  I set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother  : call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 

All  night  I lie  awake,  but  I fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 

But  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 

So,  if  you’re  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

CONCLUSION. 

I thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I am  ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet’s  here. 

0 sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies. 

And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb’s  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 

And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 

And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem’d  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun, 

And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done  ! 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


57 


But  still  I think  it  can’t  be  long  before  I find  release ; 

And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

0 blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair  ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ! 

0 blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head  ! 

A thousand  times  I blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show’d  me  all  the  sin. 

Now,  tho’  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there’s  One  will  let  me  in : 

Nor  would  I now  be  well,  mother,  again  if  that  could  be, 

For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1 did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat, 
There  came  a sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 

And  Eflie  on  the  other  side,  and  I will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I heard  the  angels  call ; 

It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all ; 

The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 

And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I thought  of  you  and  Eflie  dear; 

I saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I no  longer  here  ; 

With  all  my  strength  I pray’d  for  both,  and  so  I felt  resign’d, 

And  up  the  valley  came  a swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I listen’d  in  my  bed, 

And  then  did  something  speak  to  me  — I know  not  what  was  said : 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 

And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I said,  “ It’s  not  for  them : it’s  mine.” 
And  if  it  come  three  times,  I thought,  I take  it  for  a sign. 

And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 

Then  seem’d  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I think  my  time  is  near.  I trust  it  is.  I know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 

And  for  myself,  indeed,  I care  not  if  I go  to-day. 

But,  Eflie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 

There’s  many  a worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet. 

If  I had  lived  — I cannot  tell  — I might  have  been  his  wife  ; 

But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O look ! the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a glow ; 

He  shines  upon  a hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I know. 

And  there  I move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine  — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 


58 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


O sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  da^  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun  — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  — 

And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ? why  make  we  such  ado  1 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a blessed  home  — 

And  there  to  wait  a little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come  — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I lie  upon  your  breast  — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

Courage  ! ” he  said,  and  pointed 
toward  the  land, 

“ This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us 
shoreward  soon.” 

In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a 
land 

In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 

All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 
swoon, 

Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a weary 
dream. 

Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the 
moon ; 

And  like  a downward  smoke,  the  slen- 
der stream 

Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and 
fall  did  seem. 

A land  of  streams  ! some,  like  a down- 
ward smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn, 
did  go ; 

And  some  thro’  wavering  lights  and 
shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a slumbrous  sheet  of  foam 
below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward 
flow 

From  the  inner  land:  far  off,  three 
mountain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flush’d ; and,  dew’d  with 
showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 
woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger’d  low 
adown 

In  the  red  West : thro’  mountain  clefts 
the  dale 


Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow 
down 

Border’d  with  palm,  and  many  a wind- 
ing vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galin- 
gale; 

A land  where  all  things  always  seem’d 
the  same ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces 
pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos- 
eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted 
stem, 

Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof 
they  gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of 
them, 

And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the 
wave 

Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and 
rave 

On  alien  shores ; and  if  his  fellow 
spake, 

His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 
grave ; 

And  deep-asleep  he  seem’d,  yet  all 
awake, 

And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 
did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow 
sand, 

Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the 
shore ; 

And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father- 
land, 

Of  child  and  wife,  and  slave ; but 
evermore 


"HE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


59 


Most  weary  seem’d  the  sea,  weary  the 
oar, 

Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren 
foam. 

Then  some  one  said,  “We  will  return 
no  more ; ” 

And  all  at  once  they  sang,  “ Our  island 
home 

Is  far  beyond  the  wave ; we  will  no 
longer  roam.” 


CHOKIC  SONG. 

i. 

There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer 
falls 

Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the 
grass, 

Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between 
walls 

Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a gleaming 
pass ; 

Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 

Than  tir’d  eyelids  upon  tir’d  eyes  ; 

Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down 
from  the  blissful  skies. 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 

And  thro’  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 

And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved 
flowers  weep, 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 
hangs  in  sleep. 

ii. 

Why  are  we  weigh’d  upon  with  heavi- 
ness, 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  dis- 
tress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from 
weariness  ? 

All  things  have  rest : why  should  we 
toil  alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of 
things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another 
thrown  : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber’s  holy 
balm ; 


Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit 
sings, 

“ There  is  no  joy  but  calm  ! ” 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 
crown  of  things  ? 

hi. 

Lo  ! in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo’d  from  out  the 
bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and 
there 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no 
care, 

Sun-steep’d  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed ; and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo  ! sweeten’d  with  the  summer  light, 
The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over- 
mellow, 

Drops  in  a silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath 
no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


IV. 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o’er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life  ; ah,  why 

Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 

Let  us  alone.  Time  driveth  onward 
fast, 

And  in  a little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will  last? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  be- 
come 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful 
Past. 

Let  us  alone.  What  pleasure  can  we 
have 

To  war  with  evil  ? Is  there  any  peace 

In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing- 
wave  ? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward 
the  grave 

In  silence  ; ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death, 
or  dreamful  ease. 


60 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  down- 
ward stream, 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a half-dream  ! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder 
amber  light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush 
on  the  height ; 

To  hear  each  other’s  whisper’d  speech ; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day. 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the 
beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy 
spray  ; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirit  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  mel- 
ancholy ; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 
memory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap’d  over  with  a mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in 
an  urn  of  brass ! 


VI. 

Hear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded 
lives, 

And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our 
wives 

And  their  warm  tears  : but  all  hath 
suffer’d  change  : 

For  surely  now  our  household  hearths 
are  cold  : 

Our  sons  inherit  us : our  looks  are 
strange : 

And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to 
trouble  joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 

Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  min- 
strel sings, 

Before  them  of  the  ten  years’  war  in 
Troy, 

And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten 
things. 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  "? 

Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 

’Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 


Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many 
wars 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on 
the  pilot-stars. 

VII. 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and 
moly, 

How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us, 
blowing  lowly) 

With  lialf-dropt  eyelid  still, 

Beneath  a heaven  dark  and  holy, 

To  watch  the  long  bright  river  draw- 
ing slowly  r 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro’  the  thick- 
twined  vine  — 

To  watch  the  emerald-color’d  water 
falling 

Thro’  many  a wov’n  acanthus-wreath 
divine ! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  spar- 
kling brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch’d  out 
beneath  the  pine. 

VIII. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren 
peak  : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every-winding 
creek : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with 
mellower  tone : 

Thro’  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Bound  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the 
yellow  Lotos-dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and 
of  motion  we, 

Roll’d  to  starboard,  roll’d  to  larboard, 
when  the  surge  was  seething 
free, 

Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted 
his  foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with 
an  equal  mind, 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and 
lie  reclined 


In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined.” 

Page  60. 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


61 


On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  care- 
less of  mankind. 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and 
the  bolts  are  hurl’d 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and 
the  clouds  are  lightly  curl’d 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled 
with  the  gleaming  world  : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking 
over  wasted  lands, 

Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earth- 
quake, roaring  deeps  and  fiery 
sands, 

Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns, 
and  sinking  ships,  and  praying 
hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a music  cen- 
tred in  a doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a lamentation  and  an 
ancient  tale  of  wrong, 

Like  a tale  of  little  meaning  tho’  the 
words  are  strong ; 

Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men 
that  cleave  the  soil, 

Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest 
with  enduring  toil, 

Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat, 
and  wine  and  oil ; 

Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer  — 
some, ’tis  whisper’d  — down  in 
hell 

Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in 
Elysian  valleys  dwell, 

Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds 
of  asphodel. 

Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet 
than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean, 
wind  and  wave  and  oar  ; 

Oh  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will 
not  wander  more. 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

I read,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their 
shade, 

“ The  Legend  of  Good  Women  f long 
ago 

Sung  by  the  morning-star  of  song, 
who  made 

His  music  heard  below ; 


Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  breath 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that 
fill 

The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 

With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a while,  the  know'ledge  of 
his  art 

Held  me  above  the  subject,  as 
strong  gales 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining, 
tho’  my  heart, 

Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears. 
In  every  land 

I saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 

Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in 
hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient 
song 

Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burn- 
ing stars, 

And  I heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame, 
and  wrong, 

And  trumpets  blown  for  wars ; 

And  clattering  flints  batter’d  with 
clanging  hoofs ; 

And  I saw  crowds  in  column’d 
sanctuaries ; 

And  forms  that  pass’d  at  windows 
and  on  roofs 

Of  marble  palaces ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold ; heroes 
tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 

Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall ; 

Lances  in  ambush  set ; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro’  with 
heated  blasts 

That  run  before  the  fluttering 
tongues  of  fire ; 

White  surf  wind-scatter’d  over  sails 
and  masts, 

And  ever  climbing  higher 


62 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in 
brazen  plates, 

Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water, 
divers  woes, 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with 
iron  grates, 

And  hush’d  seraglios. 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as, 
when  to  land 

Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the 
self-same  way, 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the 
level  sand, 

Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I started  once,  or  seem’d  to  start  in 
pain, 

Resolved  on  noble  things,  and 
strove  to  speak, 

As  when  a great  thought  strikes  along 
the  brain, 

And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew 
down 

A cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a lady  from  a leaguer’d 
town ; 

And  then,  I know  not  how, 

All  those  sharp  fancies,  by  down- 
lapsing thought 

Stream’d  onward,  lost  their  edges, 
and  did  creep 

Roll’d  on  each  other,  rounded, 
smooth’d,  and  brought 

Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I had  wan- 
der’d far 

In  an  old  wood : fresh-wash’d  in 
coolest  dew 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning 
star 

Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree-boles  did  stoop 
and  lean 

Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  under- 
neath 


Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged 
with  clearest  green, 

New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her 
journey  done, 

And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the 
twilight  plain, 

Half-fall’n  across  the  threshold  of 
the  sun, 

Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb 
dead  air, 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of 
rill ; 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 

Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.  Growths  of 
jasmine  turn’d 

Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree 
to  tree, 

And  at  the  root  thro’  lush  green 
grasses  burn’d 

The  red  anemone. 

I knew  the  flowers,  I knew  the  leaves, 
I knew 

The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid 
dawn 

On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks 
drench’d  in  dew, 

Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the 
green, 

Pour’d  back  into  my  empty  soul 
and  frame 

The  times  when  I remember  to  have 
been 

Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a clear  under 
tone 

Thrill’d  thro’  mine  ears  in  that  un- 
blissful clime, 

" Pass  freely  thro’ : the  wood  is  all 
thine  own, 

Until  the  end  of  time.” 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


63 


At  length  I saw  a lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell’d  marble,  stand- 
ing there ; 

A daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 

And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with 
surprise 

Froze  my  swift  speech  : she  turning 
on  my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal 
eyes, 

Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

“ I had  great  beauty : ask  thou  not 
my  name  : 

No  one  can  be  more  wise  than 
destiny. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died. 
Where’er  I came 

I brought  calamity.” 

“ No  marvel,  sovereign  lady : in  fair 
field 

Myself  for  such  a face  had  boldly 
died,” 

I answer’d  free ; and  turning  I ap- 
peal’d 

To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks 
averse, 

To  her  full  height  her  stately  stat- 
ure drawrs; 

“ My  youth,”  she  said  “ was  blasted 
with  a curse : 

This  woman  was  the  cause. 

“ I was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad 
place, 

Which  men  call’d  Aulis  in  those 
iron  years : 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face ; 

I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

“ Still  strove  to  speak  : my  voice  was 
thick  with  sighs 

As  in  a dream.  Dimly  I could 
descry 

The  stern  black -bearded  kings  with 
wolfish  eyes, 

Waiting  to  see  me  die. 


“ The  high  masts  flicker’d  as  they  lay 
afloat ; 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver’d, 
and  the  shore ; 

The  bright  death  quiver’d  at  the  vic- 
tim’s throat ; 

Touch’d ; and  I knew  no  more.” 

Whereto  the  other  with  a downward 
brow : 

“ I would  the  white  cold  heavy- 
plunging  foam, 

Whirl’d  by  the  wind,  had  roll’d  me 
deep  below, 

Then  when  I left  my  home.” 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro’  the 
silence  drear, 

As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a sleeping 
sea : 

Sudden  I heard  a voice  that  cried, 
“Come  here, 

That  I may  look  on  thee.” 

I turning  saw,  throned  on  a flowery 
rise, 

One  sitting  on  a crimson  scarf  un- 
roll’d ; 

A queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and 
bold  black  eyes, 

Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,'  flashing  forth  a haughty  smile, 
began : 

“I  govern’d  men  by  change,  and 
so  I sway’d 

All  moods.  ’Tis  long  since  I have 
seen  a man. 

Once,  like  the  moon,  I made 

“ The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the 
blood 

According  to  my  humor  ebb  and 
flow. 

I have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 

That  makes  my  only  woe. 

“ Nay  — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I could 
not  bend 

One  will ; nor  tame  and  tutor  with 
mine  eye 


64 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


That  dull  cold-blooded  Csesar. 
Prythee,  friend, 

Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 

“ The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I 
rode  sublime 

On  Fortune’s  neck : we  sat  as  God 
by  God : 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his 
time 

And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

“We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep, 
and  lit 

Lamps  which  out-burn’d  Canopus 
O my  life 

In  Egypt ! O the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 

The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

“ And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from 
war’s  alarms, 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 

My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my 
arms, 

Contented  there  to  die  ! 

“ And  there  he  died : and  when  I heard 
my  name 

Sigh’d  forth  with  life  I would  not 
brook  my  fear 

Of  the  other:  with  a worm  I balk’d 
his  fame. 

What  else  was  left  'l  look  here ! ” 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart, 
and  half 

The  polish’d  argent  of  her  breast  to 
sight 

Laid  bare.  Thereto  she  pointed  with 
a laugh, 

Showing  the  aspick’s  bite.) 

“ I died  a Queen.  The  Roman  soldier 
found 

Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my 
brows, 

A name  forever ! — lying  robed  and 
crown’d, 

Worthy  a Roman  spouse.” 


Her  warbling  voice,  a lyre  of  widest 
range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down 
and  glance 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro’  all 
change 

Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I knew  not  for 
delight : 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from 
the  ground 

She  rais’d  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill’d 
with  light 

The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keen- 
est darts ; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning 
rings 

All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty 
hearts 

Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.  Then  I 
heard 

A noise  of  some  one  coming  thro’ 
the  lawn, 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested 
bird 

That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

“ The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow’d  Israel 

From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late 
and  soon, 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro’ 
the  dell, 

Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

“ The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with 
beams  divine : 

All  night  the  splinter’d  crags  that  wall 
the  dell 

With  spires  of  silver  shine.” 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sun- 
shine laves 

The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro’ 
the  door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 

Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


65 


Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm’d 
and  tied 

To  where  he  stands,  — so  stood  I, 
when  that  flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 

To  save  her  father’s  vow  ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite  ; 

A maiden  pure ; as  when  she  went 
along 

From  Mizpeh’s  tower’d  gate  with  wel- 
come light, 

With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth  : “ Heaven  heads 
the  count  of  crimes 

With  that  wild  oath.”  She  render’d 
answer  high  : 

“ Not  so,  nor  once  alone ; a thousand 
times 

I would  be  born  and  die. 

“ Single  I grew,  like  some  green  plant, 
whose  root 

Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes 
beneath 

Feeding  the  flower;  but  ere  my  flower 
to  fruit 

Changed,  I was  ripe  for  death. 

•‘My  God,  my  land,  my  father  — these 
did  move 

Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature 
gave, 

•Lower’d  softly  with  a threefold  cord 
of  love 

Down  to  a silent  grave. 

‘ And  I went  mourning,  ‘ No  fair 
Hebrew  boy 

Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame 
among 

The  Hebrew  mothers  ’ — emptied  of 
all  joy, 

Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

“ Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 

Leaving  the  promise  of  m}*-  bridal 
bower, 

The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that 
glow 

Beneath  the  battled  tower. 


“The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us. 
Anon 

We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his 
den  ; 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one 
by  one, 

Or,  from  the  darken’d  glen, 

“ Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame, 

And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 

I heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief 
became 

A solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

“ When  the  next  moon  was  roll’d  into 
the  sky, 

Strength  came  to  me  that  equall’d 
my  desire. 

How  beautiful  a thing  it  was  to  die 

For  God  and  for  my  sire ! 

“It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought 
to  dwell, 

That  I subdued  me  to  my  father’s 
will ; 

Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I 
fell, 

Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

“ Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hew’d  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth.”  Here  her 
face 

Glow’d  as  I look’d  at  her. 

She  lock’d  her  lips  : she  left  me  where 
I stood : 

“Glory  to  God,”  she  sang,  and  past 
afar, 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the 
wood, 

Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a casement  leans 
his  head, 

When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing 
suddenly, 

And  the  old  year  is  dead. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 


“ Alas  ! alas  ! ” a low  voice,  full  of 
care, 

Murmur’d  beside  me  : “ Turn  and 
look  on  me : 

I am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call 
fair, 

If  what  I Avas  I be. 

“ Would  I had  been  some  maiden 
coarse  and  poor ! 

O me,  that  I should  ever  see  the 
light ! 

Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger’d  Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night.” 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope 
and  trust : 

To  whom  the  Egyptian : “ 0,  you 
tamely  died ! 

You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia’s 
waist,  and  thrust 

The  dagger  thro’  her  side.” 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white 
dawn’s  creeping  beams, 

Stol’n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the 
mystery 

Of  folded  sleep.  The  captain  of  my 
dreams 

Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden’d  on  the  borders  of 
the  dark, 

Ere  I saw  her,  who  clasp’d  in  her 
last  trance 

Her  murder’d  father’s  head,  or  Joan 
of  Arc, 

A light  of  ancient  France  ; 

Or  her  who  knew  that  Love  can  van- 
quish Death, 

Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about 
her  king, 

Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath, 

Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the 
deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the 
hidden  ore 


That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I from 
sleep 

To  gather  and  tell  o’er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.  With 
what  dull  pain 

Compass’d,  how  eagerly  I sought  to 
strike 

Into  that  wondrojis  track  of  dreams 
again ! 

But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a soul  laments,  which  hath 
been  blest, 

Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past 
years, 

In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 

By  signs  or  groans  or  tears ; 

Because  all  words,  tho’  cull’d  with 
choicest  art, 

Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the 
sweet, 

Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the 
heart 

Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

O blackbird!  sing  me  something 
well : 

While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  thee 
round, 

I keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful 
ground, 

Where  thou  may’st  warble,  eat  and 
dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine ; the  range  of  lawn  and 
park : 

The  unnetted  black-hearts  ripen 
dark, 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho’  I spared  thee  all  the  spring 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still, 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  summer  jenneting. 

A golden  bill ! the  silver  tongue, 
Cold  February  loved,  is  dry : 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


67 


Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 

That  made  thee  famous  once,  when 
young : 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 
Now  thy  flute  notes  are  changed  to 
coarse, 

I hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning ! he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are 
new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD 
YEAR. 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily 
sighing : 

Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 

For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still : he  doth  not  move  : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a friend,  and  a true  true- 
love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  froth’d  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 
A jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

But  tho’  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  tho’  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I’ve  half  a mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 


He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o’er. 

To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he’ll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my 
friend, 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold, 
my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  ! over  the  snow 
I heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 

The  cricket  chirps ; the  light  burns 
low : 

’Tis  nearly  twelve  o’clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we’ll  dearly  rue  for  you : 
What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  1 
Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack ! our  friend  is  gone. 

Close  up  his  eyes:  tie  up  his  chin: 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There’s  a new  foot  on  the  floor, 
my  friend, 

And  a new  face  at  the  door,  my 
friend, 

A new  face  at  the  door. 


TO  J.  S. 

The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain, 
blows 

More, softly  round  the  open  wold, 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 
Or  else  I had  not  dared  to  flow 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a verse  your  holy  woe. 

’Tis  strange  that  those  we  lean  on 
most, 

Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs 
are  nursed. 


68 


ON  A MOURNER. 


Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.  Something  to  love 
He  lends  us ; hut,  when  love  is 
grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.  Alas  ! 

In  grief  I am  not  all  unlearn’d ; 
Once  thro’  mine  own  doors  Death  did 
pass ; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  re- 
turn’d. 

He  will  not  smile  — not  speak  to  me 
Once  more.  Two  years  his  chair 
is  seen 

Empty  before  us.  That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I had  not 
been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer  ; for  this  star 
Rose  with  you  thro’  a little  arc 
Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander’d  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I knew  your  brother  : his  mute  dust 
I honor  and  his  living  worth  : 

A man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  born  into  the  earth. 

I have  not  look’d  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  hath  fall’n 
asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I : 

I will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho’  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
• Drawn  from  the  spirit  thro’  the 
brain, 

I will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

“ Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward 
pain.” 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.  Let  her 
will 

Be  done  — to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I will  not  say,  “ God’s  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind”  ; 


For  that  is  not  a common  chance 
That  takes  away  a noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone  . 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 

That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 
And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the 
night. 

Yain  solace  ! Memory  standing  near 
Cast  down  her  eyes,  and  in  her 
throat 

Her  voice  seem’d  distant,  and  a tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I wrote. 

I wrote  I know  not  what.  In  truth, 
How  should  I soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I did  wish  to  say  : 

For  he  too  was  a friend  to  me  : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true 
breast 

Bleedeth  for  both  ; yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would 
make 

Grief  more.  ’Twere  better  I 
should  cease 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 
The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in 
peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace  : 
Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 

While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  in- 
crease, 

And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 
Nothing  comes  to  thee  new  or 
strange. 

Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 
Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of 
change. 


ON  A MOURNER. 

i. 

Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies, 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 
To  every  land  beneath  the  skies, 


YOU  ASK  ME , WHY,  THU  ILL  AT  EASE. 


69 


Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with 
base, 

But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place  ; 

ii. 

Fills  out  the  homely  quickset-screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe, 
Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  drop- 
ping snipe, 

With  moss  and  braided marish-pipe ; 
hi. 

And  on  thy  heart  a finger  lays, 

Saying,  “ Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 
Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and 
lime 

Put  forth  and  feel  a gladder  clime.” 

IV. 

And  murmurs  of  a deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine, 
Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger 
choice, 

Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  Will  that  closes  thine. 

v. 

And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  for- 
lorn, 

Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and 
bride, 

From  out  the  borders  of  the  morn, 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them 
born. 

VI. 

And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 
The  blackness  round  the  tombing 
sod, 

Thro’  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 
Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet 
have  trod, 

And  Virtue,  like  a household  god 

VII. 

Promising  empire  ; such  as  those 
Once  heard  at  dead  of  night  to  greet 
Troy’s  wandering  prince,  so  that  he 
rose 


With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho’  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends 
or  foes 

A man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A land  of  settled  government, 

A land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where  Freedom  slowly  broadens 
down 

From  precedent  to  precedent : 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive 
thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and 
spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a time 
When  single  thought  is  civil 
crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute  ; 

Tho’  Power  should  make  from  land 
to  land 

Thename  of  Britain  trebly  great — 
Tho’  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden 
sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 
Wild  wind  ! I seek  a warmer  sky, 
And  I will  see  before  I die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet 
Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 


70 


LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND. 


There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Self-gather’d  in  her  prophet-mind, 
But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro’  town  and 
field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal’d 
The  fulness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down  : 
Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown ; 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a thousand  years 
Is  in  them.  May  perpetual  youth 
Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears  ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and 
shine, 

Make  bright  our  days  and  light 
our  dreams, 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  ! 


Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far- 
brought 

From  out  the  storied  Past,  and 
used 

Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro’  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn’d  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen, 
friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a hasty  time, 

Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble 
wings 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 


From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for 
day, 

Tho’  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the 
winds  ; 

But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 
Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of 
minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the 
years : 

Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain  : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain : 
Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch  : 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw ; 
Nor  master’d  by  some  modern  term  ; 
Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but 
firm : 

And  in  its  season  bring  the  law ; 

That  from  Discussion’s  lip  may  fall 
With  Life,  that,  working  strongly, 
binds  — 

Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interest  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm, 

And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 
Thro’  many  agents  making  strong, 
Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 

We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 
All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be 
free 

To  ingroove  itself  with  that  which 
flies, 

And  work,  a joint  of  state,  that  plies 
Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA  IN  1782. 


71 


A saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act; 

For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 
Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev’n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A motion  toiling  in  the  gloom — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 
Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A slow-develop’d  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a painful  school ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 
New'  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 

But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are 
dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join’d, 

Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 
Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind ; 

A wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head ; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 
That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

Oh  yet,  if  Nature’s  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 
Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 

Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall 
close, 

That  Principles  are  rain’d  in  blood  ; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro’  shame  and 
guilt, 

But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 
Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like 
Peace ; 

Not  less,  tho’  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and 
word, 


Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the 
sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword 
away  — 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that 
broke 

From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should 
rise 

Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one 
stroke : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day, 

As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor 
wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA 
IN  1782. 

O thou,  that  sendest  out  the  man 
To  rule  by  land  and  sea, 

Strong  mother  of  a Lion-line, 

Be  proud  of  those  strong  sons  of  thine 
Who  wrench’d  their  rights  from 
thee ! 

What  wonder,  if  in  noble  heat 
Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 
Retaught  the  lesson  thou  hadst  taught. 
And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought  — 
Who  sprang  from  English  blood ! 

But  Thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy, 
Lift  up  thy  rocky  face. 

And  shatter,  when  the  storms  are 
black, 

In  many  a streaming  torrent  back, 
The  seas  that  shock  thy  base  ! 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 
The  growing  world  assume, 

Thy  work  is  thine  — The  single  note 
From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden 
smote 

Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 


72 


THE  GOOSE. 


THE  GOOSE. 

I knew  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 
Her  rags  scarce  held  together ; 
There  strode  a stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter’d  rhyme  and  reason, 

“ Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you 
warm, 

It  is  a stormy  season.” 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg, 
A goose  — ’twas  no  great  matter. 
The  goose  let  fall  a golden  egg 
With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the 
pelf, 

And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors ; 

And  bless’d  herself,  and  cursed  herself, 
And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft, 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doff’d, 
The  parson  smirk’d  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid, 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder : 
But  ah ! the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack’d  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter’d  here,  it  chuckled  there ; 

It  stirr’d  the  old  wife’s  mettle  : 

She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl’d  the  pan  and  kettle. 


“ A quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  ! ” 
Then  wax’d  her  anger  stronger. 
“Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her 
throat, 

I will  not  bear  it  longer.” 

Then  yelp’d  the  cur,  and  yawl’d  the 
cat  j 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer. 

The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that, 
And  fill’d  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  flounder’d  all  together, 

There  strode  a stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather : 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter’d  words  of  scorning ; 

“ So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a stormy  morning.” 

The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and 
plain, 

And  round  the  attics  rumbled, 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again, 

And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up, 
And  a whirlwind  clear’d  the  larder  : 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loc«e 
Her  household  fled  the  danger. 
Quoth  she,  “ The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger ! ” 


ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  EPIC. 

At  Francis  Allen’s  on  the  Christmas- 
eve,  — 

The  game  of  forfeits  done  — the  girls 
all  kiss’d 

Beneath  the  sacred  hush  and  past 
away  — 

The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard 
Hall, 

The  host,  and  I sat  round  the  wassail- 
bowl, 

Then  half-way  ebb’d : and  there  we 
held  a talk, 

How  all  the  old  honor  had  from 
Christmas  gone, 

Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some 
odd  games 

In  some  odd  nooks  like  this ; till  I, 
tired  out 

With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the 
pond, 

Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the 
outer  edge, 

I bump’d  the  ice  into  three  several 
stars, 

Fell  in  a doze;  and  half  awake  I 
heard 

The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider 
sweeps, 

Now  harping  on  the  church-commis- 
sioners, 

Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism  ; 

Until  I woke,  and  found  him  settled 
down 

Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 

Right  thro’  the  world,  “ at  home  was 
little  left, 


And  none  abroad : there  was  no 

anchor,  none, 

To  hold  by.”  Francis,  laughing,  clapt 
his  hand 

On  Everard’s  shoulder,  with  “ I hold 
by  him.” 

“And  I,”  quoth  Everard,  “by  the 
wassail-bowl.” 

“ Why  yes,”  I said,  “ we  knew  your 
gift  that  way 

At  college : but  another  which  you 
had, 

I mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it 
then), 

What  came  of  that  ? ” “ You  know,” 

said  Frank,  “ he  burnt 

His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve 
books ” — 

And  then  to  me  demanding  why? 
“ Oh,  sir, 

He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said, 
or  else 

Something  so  said  ’twas  nothing  — 
that  a truth 

Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the 
day: 

God  knows  : he  has  a mint  of  reasons : 
ask. 

It  pleased  me  well  enough.”  “Nay, 
nay,”  said  Hall, 

“ Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic 
times  ? 

For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mas- 
todon, 

Nor  we  those  times ; and  why  should 
any  man 

Remodel  models  ? these  twelve  books 
of  mine 


74 


MORTE  U ARTHUR. 


Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing- 
worth, 

Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better 
burnt.”  “ But  I,” 

Said  Francis,  “pick’d  the  eleventh 
from  this  hearth 

And  have  it : keep  a thing,  its  use 
will  come. 

I hoard  it  as  a sugar-plum  for  Holmes.” 

He  laugh’d,  and  I,  tho’  sleepy,  like  a 
horse 

That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick’d 
my  ears ; 

For  I remember’d  Everard’s  college 
fame 

When  we  were  Freshmen  : then  at  my 
request 

He  brought  it ; and  the  poet  little 
urged, 

But  with  some  prelude  of  disparage- 
ment, 

Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes 
and  aes, 

Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D’ARTHUR, 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle 
roll’d 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter 
sea ; 

Until  King  Arthur’s  table,  man  by 
man, 

Had  fallen  in  Lyonness  about  their 
Lord, 

King  Arthur  : then,  because  his  wound 
was  deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 

Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his 
knights, 

And  bore  him  to  a chapel  nigh  the 
field, 

A broken  chancel  with  a broken  cross, 

That  stood  on  a dark  strait  of  barren 
land. 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

Lay  a great  water,  and  the  moon  was 
full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere : 

“ The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 


The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous 
knights 

Whereof  this  world  holds  record. 
Such  a sleep 

They  sleep  — the  men  I loved.  I 
think  that  we 

Shall  nevermore,  at  any  future  time, 

Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 
deeds, 

Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the 
halls 

Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

I perish  by  this  people  which  I 
made,  — 

Tho’  Merlin  sware  that  I should  come 
again 

To  rule  once  more  — but  let  what  will 
be,  be, 

I am  so  deeply  smitten  thro’  the  helm 

That  without  help  I cannot  last  till 
morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Ex-* 
calibur, 

Which  was  my  pride : for  thou  re- 
memberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 
an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 
lake, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

Holding  the  sword  — and  how  I row’d 
across 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it  like  a 
king: 

And,  wheresoever  I am  sung  or 
told 

In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 

But  now  delay  not : take  Exealibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle 
mere : 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly 
bring  me  word.” 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

“It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave 
thee  thus, 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro’  the 
helm. 

A little  thing  may  harm  a wounded 
man. 

Yet  I thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


75 


Watch  what  I see,  and  lightly  bring 
thee  word.” 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin’d  shrine 
he  stept 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 
tombs, 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  an- 
cient men, 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He, 
stepping  down 

By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 
rock. 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand 
Excalibur, 

And  o’er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon, 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a long  cloud, 
ran  forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 
the  hilt : 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  dia- 
mond sparks, 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth- 
work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.  He  gazed  so  long 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as 
he  stood, 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 
mind, 

In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it 
seem’d 

Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal’d 

There  in  the  many -knotted  water-flags, 

That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 
marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere : 

ee  Hast  thou  perform’d  my  mission 
which  I gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  1 or  what 
hast  heard  ? ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir 
Bedivere : 

“I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds, 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the 
crag.” 


To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 
and  pale  : 

“ Thou  hast  betray’d  thy  nature  and 
thy  name, 

Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  be- 
seem’d 

Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a noble  knight : 

Eor  surer  sign  had  follow’d,  either 
hand, 

Or  voice,  or  else  a motion  of  the  mere. 

This  is  a shameful  thing  for  men  to 
lie. 

Yet  now,  I charge  thee,  quickly  go 
again 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 
thing 

I bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 
me  word.” 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 
time 

Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside 
the  mere, 

Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix’d  in 
thought ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the 
hilt, 

How  curiously  and  strangely  chased, 
he  smote 

His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud, 
“And  if  indeed  I cast  the  brand 
away, 

Surely  a precious  thing,  one  worthy 
note, 

Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the 
earth, 

Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes 
of  many  men. 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 
were  done  ? 

What  harm,  undone  ? deep  harm  to 
disobey, 

Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 

Were  it  well  to  obey  them,  if  a king 
demand 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  1 

The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 
he  does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 

Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty 
breath 

And  rumors  of  a doubt  1 but  were 
this  kept, 


76 


MORTE  U ARTHUR. 


Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of 
mighty  kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a joust  of 
arms, 

Saying,  ‘ King  Arthur’s  sword,  Excali- 
bur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 
Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in 
the  deeps 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.’ 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 
aftertime 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 
were  lost.” 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own 
conceit, 

And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the 
wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 
heavily : 

“ What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ? or  what 
hast  heard  ? ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir 
Bedivere : 

“I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the 
crag, 

And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds.” 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur, 
much  in  wrath : 

* Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!  Woe  is 
me ! 

Authority  forgets  a dying  king. 

Laid  widow’d  of  the  power  in  his 
eye 

That  bow’d  the  will.  I see  thee  what 
thou  art, 

For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my 
knights, 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the 
precious  hilt ; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get 
thee  hence : 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 


I will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my 
hands.” 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and 
ran, 

And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 
plunged 

Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch’l 
the  sword, 

And  strongly  wheel’d  and  threw  it. 
The  great  brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of 
the  moon, 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and 
whirl’d  in  an  arch, 

Shot  like  a streamer  of  the  northern 
morn, 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  win- 
ter shock 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern 
sea. 

So  flash’d  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur : 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 
arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish’d  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere. 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the 
King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing 
thicker  breath: 

“ Now  see  I by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 
done. 

Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 
or  seen  'l  ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir 
Bedivere : 

“ Sir  King,  I closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 
the  gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I never 
saw, 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I 
die, 

Not  tho’  I live  three  lives  of  mortal 
men, 

So  great  a miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I flung  him, 
wheeling  him ; 

But  when  I look’d  again,  behold  an 
arm, 


MORTE  D* ARTHUR. 


77 


Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish’d  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere.” 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur, 
breathing  hard : 

“ My  end  draws  nigh ; ’tis  time  that  I 
were  gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 
my  weight, 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I 
fear 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I 
shall  die.” 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he 
half  rose, 

Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his 
arm, 

And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 
eyes 

As  in  a picture.  Him  Sir  Bedivere 

Remorsefully  regarded  thro’  his  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 
not  words, 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 
one  knee, 

O’er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands, 

And  rising  bore  him  thro’  the  place 
of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk’d,  King  Arthur 
panted  hard, 

Like  one  that  feels  a nightmare  on 
his  bed 

When  all  the  house  is  mute.  So 
sigh’d  the  King, 

Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear, 
“ Quick,  quick ! 

I fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I shall  die.” 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from 
ridge  to  ridge, 

Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 
as  he  walk’d, 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 
cry 

Before.  His  own  thought  drove  him, 
like  a goad. 

Dry  clash’d  his  harness  in  the  icy 
caves 


And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left 
and  right 

The  bare  black  cliff  clang’d  round 
him,  as  he  based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 
rang 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 
heels  — 

And  on  a sudden,  lo ! the  level  lake, 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter 
moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a 
dusky  barge, 

Dark  as  a funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 
stern, 

Beneath  them;  and  descending  they 
were  ware 

That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with 
stately  forms 

Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a 
dream  — by  these 

Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  — 
and  from  them  rose 

A cry  that  shiver’d  to  the  tingling 
stars, 

And,  as  it  were  one  voice  an  agony 

Of  lamentation,  like  a wind,  that 
shrills 

All  night  in  a waste  land,  where  no 
one  comes, 

Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of 
the  world. 

Then  murmur’d  Arthur,  “ Place  me 
in  the  barge,” 

And  to  the  barge  they  came.  There 
those  three  Queens 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the 
King,  and  wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them 
all 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her 
lap, 

And  loosed  the  shatter’d  casque,  and 
chafed  his  hands, 

And  call’d  him  by  his  name,  com- 
plaining loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his 
brow 

Striped  with  dark  blood:  for  all  his 
face  was  white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither’d 
moon 


78 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the 
springing  east  ; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash’d 
with  drops 

Of  onset ; and  the  light  and  lustrous 
curls  — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a rising 
sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne  — were 
parch’d  with  dust ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging 
loose, 

Mix’d  with  the  knightly  growth  that 
fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a shatter’d  column  lay  the 
King ; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 
in  rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a star  of  tourna- 
ment, 

Shot  thro’  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 
charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere, 

“ Ah ! my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 
I go? 

Where  shall  I hide  my  forehead  and 
my  eyes  ? 

For  now  I see  the  true  old  times  are 
dead, 

When  every  morning  brought  a noble 
chance, 

And  every  chance  brought  out  a noble 
knight. 

Such  times  have  been  not  since  the 
light  that  led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  round  table  is 
dissolved 

Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 
world ; 

And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companion- 
less, 

And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and 
the  years, 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 
minds.” 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from 
the  barge : 

‘ The  old  order  changeth,  yielding 
place  to  new, 


And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 
the  world. 

Comfort  thyself : what  comfort  is  in 
me  ? 

I have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 
have  done 

May  He  within  Himself  make  pure! 
but  thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face 
again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are 
wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.  Where- 
fore, let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a fountain  for  me  night  and 
day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep 
or  goats 

That  nourish  a blind  life  within  the 
brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 
of  prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who 
call  them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 
way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet 
of  God. 

But  now  farewell.  I am  going  a long 
way 

With  these  thou  seest  — if  indeed  I 
go  — 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 
doubt) 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 
snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it 
lies 

Deep-meadow’d,  happy,  fair  with 
orchard-lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown’d  with 
summer  sea, 

Where  I will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound.” 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 
and  sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted swan 

That,  fluting  a wild  carol  ere  her 
death. 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


79 


Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the 
hull 

Look’d  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn, 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died 
away. 

Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light, 
that  long 

Had  wink’d  and  threaten’d  darkness, 
flared  and  fell : 

At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep 
with  sound, 

And  waked  with  silence,  grunted 
“ Good ! ” but  we 

Sat  rapt : it  was  the  tone  with  which 
he  read  — 

Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here 
and  there 

Redeem’d  it  from  the  charge  of  noth- 
ingness — - 

Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized 
his  work ; 

I know  not : but  we  sitting,  as  I said, 

The  cock  crew  loud ; as  at  that  time 
of  year 

The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for 
dawn : 

Then  Prancis,  muttering,  like  a man 
ill-used, 

“ There  now  — that’s  nothing ! ” drew 
a little  back, 

And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoul- 
der’d log, 

That  sent  a blast  of  sparkles  up  the 
flue : 

And  so  to  bed;  where  yet  in  sleep  I 
seem’d 

To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming 
shores, 

Point  after  point;  till  on  to  dawn, 
when  dreams 

Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of 
day, 

To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a 
crowd, 

There  came  a bark  that,  blowing  for- 
ward, bore 


King  Arthur,  like  a modern  gentle- 
man 

Of  stateliest  port ; and  all  the  people 
cried, 

“Arthur  is  come  again:  he  cannot 
die.” 

Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills 
behind 

Repeated  — “ Come  again,  and  thrice 
as  fair , ” 

And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed  — 
“ Come 

With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall 
be  no  more.” 

At  this  a hundred  bells  began  to  peal, 

That  with  the  sound  I woke,  and  heard 
indeed 

The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the 
Christmas-morn. 


THE  GARDENER’S 
DAUGHTER; 

OR,  THE  PICTURES. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the 
day, 

When  I and  Eustace  from  the  city 
went 

To  see  the  Gardener’s  Daughter;  I 
and  he, 

Brothers  in  Art ; a friendship  so  com- 
plete 

Portion’d  in  halves  between  us,  that 
we  grew 

The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for, 
Hercules ; 

So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of 
breast. 

He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love, 
and  draws 

The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 

A certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 

A miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 

Summ’d  up  and  closed  in  little;  — 
Juliet,  she 

So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit  — 
oh,  she 

To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless 
moons, 

The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 


80 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


Unto  the  shores  of  nothing!  Know 
you  not 

Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of 
love, 

To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he 
found 

Empire  for  life  ? but  Eustace  painted 
her, 

And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us 
then, 

“ When  will  you  paint  like  this?  ” and 
I replied, 

( My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half 
in  jest,) 

“ ’Tis  not  your  work,  but  Love’s. 
Love,  unperceived, 

A more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all, 

Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you, 
made  those  eyes 

Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that 
hair 

More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front 
of  March.” 

And  Juliet  answer’d  laughing,  “Go 
and  see 

The  Gardener’s  daughter:  trust  me, 
after  that, 

You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  mas- 
terpiece.” 

And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we 
went. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor 
quite 

Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I 
love. 

News  from  the  humming  city  comes 
to  it 

In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage 
bells ; 

And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves, 
you  hear 

The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster 
clock ; 

Although  between  it  and  the  garden 
lies 

A league  of  grass,  wash’d  by  a slow 
broad  stream, 

That,  stirr’d  with  languid  pulses  of  the 
oar, 

Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 

Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a 
bridge 


Crown’d  with  the  minster-towers. 

The  fields  between 

Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  ty  deep- 
udder’d  kine, 

And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers 
low, 

The  lime  a summer  home  of  murmur- 
ous wings. 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in 
herself, 

Grew,  seldom  seen  ; not  less  among  us 
lived 

Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.  Who  had 
not  heard 

Of  Rose,  the  Gardener’s  daughter? 
Where  was  he, 

So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 

At  such  a distance  from  his  youth  in 
grief, 

That,  having  seen,  forgot  ? The  com- 
mon mouth, 

So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise 
of  her 

Grew  oratory.  Such  a lord  is  Love, 

And  Beauty  such  a mistress  of  the 
world. 

And  if  I said  that  Eancy,  led  by 
Love, 

Would  play  with  flying  forms  and 
images, 

Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 

I look’d  upon  her,  when  I heard  her 
name 

My  heart  was  like  a prophet  to  my 
heart, 

And  told  me  I should  love.  A crowd 
of  hopes, 

That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like 
winged  seeds, 

Born  out  of  everything  I heard  and 
saw, 

Flutter’d  about  my  senses  and  my  soul  ; 

And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of 
balm 

To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the 
air 

Of  Life  delicious,  and  all  kinds  of 
thought, 

That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than 
the  dream 

Dream’d  by  a happy  man,  when  the 
dark  East, 


THE  GARDENER’S  DAUGHTER. 


81 


Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal 
morn. 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory 
folds 

For  ever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 

To  see  her.  All  the  land  in  flowery 
squares. 

Beneath  a broad  and  equal-blowing 
wind, 

Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one 
large  cloud 

Drew  downward : but  all  else  of 
heaven  was  pure 

Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge 
to  verge, 

And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel. 
And  now, 

As  tho’  ’twere  yesterday,  as  tho’  it 
were 

The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with 
all  its  sound, 

(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the 
life  of  these,) 

Rings  in  mine  ears.  The  steer  forgot 
to  graze, 

And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the 
pathway,  stood, 

Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor 
field, 

And  lowing  to  his  fellows.  From  the 
woods 

Came  voices  of  the  well-contented 
doves. 

The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes 
for  joy, 

But  shook  his  song  together  as  he 
near’d 

His  happy  home,  the  ground.  To  left 
and  right, 

The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the 
hills ; 

The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm ; 

The  redcap  whistled;  and  the  night- 
ingale 

Sang  loud,  as  tho’  he  were  the  bird  of 
day. 

And  Eustace  turn’d,  and  smiling 
said  to  me, 

“ Hear  how  the  bushes  echo ! by  my 
life, 

These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts. 
Think  you  they  sing 


Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song  ? 

Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they 
sing  1 

And  would  they  praise  the  heavens 
for  what  they  have  ? ” 

And  I made  answer,  “Were  there 
nothing  else 

For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but 
only  love, 

That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for 
praise.” 

Lightly  he  laugh’d,  as  one  that  read 
my  thought, 

And  on  we  went ; but  ere  an  hour  had 
pass’d, 

We  reach’d  a meadow  slanting  to  the 
North  ; 

Down  which  a well-worn  pathway 
courted  us 

To  one  green  wicket  in  a privet  hedge ; 

This,  yielding,  gave  into  a grassy 
walk 

Thro’  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly 
pruned  ; 

And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  per- 
fume, blew 

Beyond  us,  as  we  enter’d  in  the  cool. 

The  garden  stretches  southward.  In 
the  midst 

A cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers 
of  shade. 

The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  mo- 
mently 

The  twinkling  laurel  scatter’d  silver 
lights. 

“Eustace,”  I said,  “this  wonder 
keeps  the  house.” 

He  nodded,  but  a moment  afterwards 

He  cried,  “ Look ! look ! ” Before  he 
ceased  I turn’d, 

And,  ere  a star  can  wink,  beheld  her 
there. 

For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an 
Eastern  rose, 

That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night’s 
gale  had  caught, 

And  blown  across  the  walk.  One  arm 
aloft  — 

Gown’d  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to 
the  shape  — 

Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she 
stood, 


82 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


A single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown 
hair 

Pour’d  on  one  side  : the  shadow  of  the 
flowers 

Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wav- 
ering 

Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her 
waist  — 

Ah,  happy  shade  — and  still  went 
wavering  down, 

But,  ere  it  touch’d  a foot,  that  might 
have  danced 

The  greensward  into  greener  circles, 
dipt, 

And  mix’d  with  shadows  of  the  com- 
mon ground ! 

But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows, 
and  sunn’d 

Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe 
bloom, 

And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against 
her  lips, 

And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a 
breast 

As  never  pencil  drew.  Half  light, 
half  shade, 

She  stood,  a sight  to  make  an  old 
man  young. 

So  rapt,  we  near’d  the  house ; but 
she,  a Rose 

In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant 
toil, 

Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tend- 
ance turn’d 

Into  the  world  without ; till  close  at 
hand, 

And  almost  ere  I knew  mine  own  in- 
tent, 

This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of 
that  air 

Which  brooded  round  about  her  : 

“ Ah,  one  rose, 

One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers 
cull’d, 

Were  worth  a hundred  kisses  press’d 
on  lips 

Less  exquisite  than  thine.” 

She  look’d : but  all 

Suffused  with  blushes  — neither  self- 
possess’d 

Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood 
and  that, 


Divided  in  a graceful  quiet — paused, 

And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and 
turning,  wound 

Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr’d 
her  lips 

For  some  sweet  answer,  tho’  no  answer 
came, 

Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 

And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue- 
like, 

In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 

Saw  her  no  more,  altho’  I linger’d 
there 

Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love’s 
white  star 

Beam’d  thro’  the  thicken’d  cedar  in 
the  dusk. 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  live- 
long way 

With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter 
me. 

<£  Now,”  said  he,  “ will  you  climb  the 
top  of  Art. 

You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to 
dim 

The  Titianic  Flora.  Will  you  match 

My  Juliet1?  you,  not  you, — the  Mas- 
ter, Love, 

A more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all.” 

So  home  I went,  but  could  not  sleep 
for  joy, 

Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the 
gloom, 

Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o’er  and 
o’er, 

And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the 
glance 

That  graced  the  giving  — such  a noise 
of  life 

Swarm’d  in  the  golden  present,  such 
a voice 

Call’d  to  me  from  the  years  to  come, 
and  such 

A length  of  bright  horizon  rimm’d  the 
dark. 

And  all  that  night  I heard  the  watch- 
man peal 

The  sliding  season : all  that  night  I 
heard 

The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy 
hours. 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


83 


The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all 
good, 

O’er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded 
wings, 

Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 

To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and 
heir  to  all, 

Made  this  night  thus.  Henceforward 
squall  nor  storm 

Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where 
she  dwelt. 

Light  pretexts  drew  me ; sometimes  a 
Dutch  love 

For  tulips;  then  for  roses,  moss  or 
musk, 

To  grace  my  city  rooms  ; or  fruits  and 
cream 

Served  in  the  weeping  elm  ; and  more 
and  more 

A word  could  bring  the  color  to  my 
cheek ; 

A thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with 
happy  dew ; 

Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with 
each 

The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 

One  after  one,  thro’  that  still  garden 
pass’d ; 

Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar 
flower 

Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the 
shade ; 

And  each  in  passing  touch’d  with  some 
new  grace 

Or  seem’d  to  touch  her,  so  that  day 
by  day, 

Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly 
known, 

Her  beauty  grew ; till  Autumn  brought 
an  hour 

For  Eustace,  when  I heard  his  deep 
“I  will,” 

Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a God, 
to  hold 

From  thence  thro’  all  the  worlds  : but 
I rose  up 

Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her 
dark  eyes 

Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I 
reach’d 


The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  stand- 
ing there. 

There  sat  we  down  upon  a garden 
mound, 

Two  mutually  enfolded;  Love,  the 
third, 

Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 

Enwound  us  both  ; and  over  many  a 
range 

Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral 
towers, 

Across  a hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 

Reveal’d  their  shining  windows  : from 
them  clash’d 

The  bells ; we  listen’d  ; with  the  time 
we  play’d, 

We  spoke  of  other  things ; we  coursed 
about 

The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near 
and  near, 

Like  doves  about  a dovecote,  wheeling 
round 

The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I spoke 
to  her, 

Requiring,  tho’  I knew  it  was  mine 
own, 

Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I took  to 
hear, 

Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 

A woman’s  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I 
loved; 

And  in  that  time  and  place  she  an- 
swer’d me, 

And  in  the  compass  of  three  little 
words, 

More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 

The  silver  fragments  of  a broken 
voice, 

Made  me  most  happy,  faltering,  “ I am 
thine.” 

Shall  I cease  here  ? Is  this  enough 
to  say 

That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest 
hopes, 

By  its  own  energy  fulfill’d  itself, 

Merged  in  completion?  Would  you 
learn  at  full 

How  passion  rose  thro’  circumstantial 
grades 

Beyond  all  grades  develop’d  ? and  in- 
deed 


84 


DORA . 


I had  not  staid  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 

But  while  I mused  came  Memory  with 
sad  eyes, 

Holding  the  folded  annals  of  iPy 
youth ; 

And  while  I mused,  Love  with  knit 
brows  went  by, 

And  with  a flying  finger  swept  my  lips, 

And  spake,  “ Be  wise  : not  easily  for- 
given 

Are  those,  who  setting  wide  the  doors 
that  bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the 
heart, 

Let  in  the  day.”  Here,  then,  my  words 
have  end. 

Yet  might  I tell  of  meetings,  of  fare- 
wells — 

Of  that  which  came  between,  more 
sweet  than  each, 

In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the 
leaves 

That  tremble  round  a nightingale  — 
in  sighs 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex’d  for  ut- 
terance, 

Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.  Might 
I not  tell 

Of  difference,  reconcilement,  pledges 
given, 

And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need 
of  vows, 

And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one 
wild  leap 

Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as 
above 

The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces 
pale 

Sow’d  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleet- 
ing stars  ; 

Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent- 
lit, 

Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river- 
shores, 

And  in  the  hollows  ; or  as  once  we  met 

(Jnheedful,  tho’  beneath  a whispering 
rain 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of 
sighing  wind, 

And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 

But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have 
been  intent 


On  that  veil’d  picture  — veil’d,  for 
what  it  holds 

May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common 
day. 

This  prplude  has  prepared  thee.  Raise 
thy  soul ; 

Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine 
eyes : the  time 

Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 

As  I beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart. 

My  first,  last  love;  the  idol  of  my 
youth, 

The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas ! 

Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine 
age. 


DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 

William  and  Dora.  William  was  his 
son, 

And  she  his  niece.  He  often  look’d 
at  them, 

And  often  thought,  “ I’ll  make  them 
man  and  wife.” 

Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle’s  will  in  all, 

And  yearn’d  towards  William ; but  the 
youth,  because 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the 
house, 

Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a day 

When  Allan  call’d  his  son,  and  said, 
“ My  son  : 

I married  late,  but  I would  wish  to  see 

My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I 
die : 

And  I have  set  my  heart  upon  a match. 

Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ; she  is 
well 

To  look  to ; thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 

She  is  my  brother’s  daughter  : he  and  I 

Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and 
he  died 

In  foreign  lands ; but  for  his  sake  I 
bred 

His  daughter  Dora  : take  her  for  your 
wife ; 

For  I have  wish’d  this  marriage,  night 
and  day, 


“ And  Dora  took  the  child  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat  and  sat  upon  a mound.” 


Page  85. 


DORA. 


85 


For  many  years.”  But  William  an- 
swer’d short ; 

“ I cannot  marry  Dora  ; by  my  life, 

I will  not  marry  Dora.”  Then  the  old 
man  • 

Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands, 
and  said : 

“ You  will  not,  boy ! you  dare  to  an- 
swer thus  ! 

But  in  my  time  a father’s  word  was 
law, 

And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.  Look 
to  it ; 

Consider,  William  : take  a month  to 
think, 

And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my 
wish ; 

Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you 
shall  pack, 

And  never  more  darken  my  doors 
again.” 

But  William  answer’d  madly ; bit  his 
lips, 

And  broke  away.  The  more  he  look’d 
at  her 

The  less  he  liked  her ; and  his  ways 
were  harsh ; 

But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.  Then 
before 

The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father’s 
house, 

And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the 
fields ; 

And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo’d 
and  wed 

A laborer’s  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing, 
Allan  call’d 

His  niece  and  said : “ My  girl,  I love 
you  well ; 

But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was 
my  son, 

Or  change  a word  with  her  he  calls  his 
wife, 

My  home  is  none  of  yours.  My  will 
is  law.” 

And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.  She 
thought, 

“ It  cannot  be  : my  uncle’s  mind  will 
change ! ” 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was 
born  a boy 


To  William ; then  distresses  came  on 
him ; 

And  day  by  day  he  pass’d  his  father’s 
gate, 

Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help’d 
him  not. 

But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could 
save, 

And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did 
they  know 

Who  sent  it ; till  at  last  a fever  seized 

On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he 
died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.  Mary  sat 

And  look’d  with  tears  upon  her  boy, 
and  thought 

Hard  things  of  Dora.  Dora  came  and 
said : 

“ I have  obey’d  my  uncle  until  now, 

And  I have  sinn’d,  for  it  was  all  thro’ 
me 

This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 

But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that’s 
gone, 

And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 
chose, 

And  for  this  orphan,  I am  come  to 
you: 

You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these 
five  years 

So  full  a harvest:  let  me  take  the 
boy, 

And  I will  set  him  in  my  uncle’'s  eye 

Among  the  wheat ; that  when  his  heart 
is  glad 

Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the 
boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him 
that’s  gone.” 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went 
her  way 

Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a 
mound 

That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies 
grew. 

Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 

And  spied  her  not ; for  none  of  all  his 
men 

Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the 
child ; 

And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone 
to  him, 


86 


DORA. 


But  her  heart  fail’d  her ; and  the  reap- 
ers reap’d, 

And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 
dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 
and  took 

The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the 
mound ; 

And  made  a little  wreath  of  all  the 
flowers 

That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his 
hat 

To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle’s 
eye. 

Then  when  the  farmer  pass’d  into  the 
field 

He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at 
work, 

And  came  and  said : “ Where  were  you 
yesterday  1 

Whose  child  is  that  ? What  are  you 
doing  here  ? ” 

So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 

And  answer’d  softly,  “ This  is  Wil- 
liam’s child ! ” 

“ And  did  I not,”  said  Allan,  “ did  I 
not 

Forbid  you,  Dora  ? ” Dora  said  again  : 

“ Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the 
child, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him 
that’s  gone ! ” 

And  Allan  said,  “ I see  it  is  a trick 

Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman 
there. 

I must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet 
you  dared 

To  slight  it.  Well  — for  I will  take 
the  boy ; 

But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me 
more.” 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy  that  cried 
aloud 

And  struggled  hard.  The  wreath  of 
flowers  fell 

At  Dora’s  feet.  She  bow’d  upon  her 
hands, 

And  the  boy’s  cry  came  to  her  from  the 
field, 

More  and  more  distant.  She  bow’d 
down  her  head, 


Remembering  the  day  when  first  she 
came, 

And  all  the  things  that  had  been.  She 
bow’d  down 

And  wept  in  secret ; and  the  reapers 
reap’d, 

And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 
dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary’s  house, 
and  stood 

Upon  the  threshold.  Mary  saw  the 
boy 

Was  not  with  Dora.  She  broke  out 
in  praise 

To  God,  that  help’d  her  in  her  widow- 
hood. 

And  Dora  said,  “ My  uncle  took  the 
boy; 

But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with 
you : 

He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me 
more.” 

Then  answer’d  Mary,  “ This  shall  never 
be, 

That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble 
on  thyself : 

And,  now  I think,  he  shall  not  have 
the  boy, 

For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and 
to  slight 

His  mother ; therefore  thou  and  I will 
go, 

And  I will  have  my  boy,  and  bring 
him  home ; 

And  I will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee 
back  : 

But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back 
again, 

Then  thou  and  I will  live  within  one 
house, 

And  work  for  William’s  child,  until 
he  grows 

Of  age  to  help  us.” 

So  the  women  kiss’d 

Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach’d 
the  farm. 

The  door  was  off  the  latch:  they 
peep’d,  and  saw 

The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire’s 
knees, 

Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his 
arm. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 


87 


And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on 
the  cheeks, 

Like  one  that  loved  him : and  the  lad 
stretch’d  out 

And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that 
hung 

From  Allan’s  watch,  and  sparkled  by 
the  fire. 

Then  they  came  in : but  when  the  boy 
beheld 

His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 

And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary 
said  : 

“ O Father ! — if  you  let  me  call 
you  so  — 

I never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 

Or  William,  or  this  child ; but  now  I 
come 

For  Dora : take  her  back ; she  loves 
you  well. 

0 Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at 

peace 

With  all  men ; for  I ask’d  him,  and  he 
said, 

He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying 
me  — 

1 had  been  a patient  wife : but,  Sir, 

he  said 

That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father 
thus : 

‘ God  bless  him ! ’ he  said,  ‘ and  may 
he  never  know 

The  troubles  I have  gone  thro’ ! ’ 
Then  he  turn’d 

His  face  and  pass’d  — unhappy  that  I 
am ! 

But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for 
you 

Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn 
to  slight 

His  father’s  memory ; and  take  Dora 
back, 

And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before.” 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 

By  Mary.  There  was  silence  in  the 
room ; 

And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in 
sobs : — 

“ I have  been  to  blame  — to  blame. 
1 have  killed  my  son. 

I have  kill’d  him  — but  I loved  him 
— my  dear  son. 


May  God  forgive  me  ! — I have  been 
to  blame. 

Kiss  me,  my  children.” 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man’s  neck,  and  kiss’d  him 
many  times. 

And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  re 
morse ; 

And  all  his  love  came  back  a hundred- 
fold ; 

And  for  three  hours  he  sobb’d  o’er 
William’s  child 

Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together;  and  as 
years 

Went  forward,  Mary  took  another 
mate ; 

But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her 
death. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 

“ The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm’d, 
and  not  a room 

For  love  or  money.  Let  us  picnic 
there 

At  Audley  Court.” 

I spoke,  while  Audley  feast 

Humm’d  like  a hive  all  round  the 
narrow  quay, 

To  Francis,  with  a basket  on  his  arm, 

To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat, 

And  breathing  of  the  sea.  “With  all 
my  heart,” 

Said  Francis.  Then  we  shoulder’d 
thro’  the  swarm, 

And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the 
beach 

To  where  the  bay  runs  up  its  latest 
horn. 

We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly 
lipp’d 

The  flat  red  granite ; so  by  many  a 
sweep 

Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath 
we  reach’d 

The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass’d 
thro’  all 

The  pillar’d  dusk  of  sounding  syca- 
mores, 


AIJDLEY  COURT. 


And  cross’d  the  garden  to  the  gar- 
dener’s lodge, 

With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its 
walls 

And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy 
vine. 

There,  on  a slope  of  orchard,  Fran- 
cis laid 

A damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse 
and  hound, 

Brought  out  a dusky  loaf  that  smelt 
of  home, 

And,  lialf-cut-down,  a pasty  costly- 
made, 

Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  lev- 
eret lay, 

Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden 
yolks 

Imbedded  and  injellied ; last,  with 
these, 

A flask  of  cider  from  his  father’s 
vats, 

Prime,  which  I knew ; and  so  we  sat 
and  eat 

And  talk’d  old  matters  over;  who  was 
dead, 

Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and 
how 

The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent 
the  hall : 

Then  touch’d  upon  the  game,  how 
scarce  it  was 

This  season ; glancing  thence,  dis- 
cuss’d the  farm, 

The  four-field  system,  and  the  price  of 
grain ; 

And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where 
we  split, 

And  came  again  together  on  the  king 

With  heated  faces ; till  he  laugh’d 
aloud ; 

And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin 
hung 

To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine 
and  sang  — 

“ Oh ! who  would  fight  and  march 
and  countermarch, 

Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a battle-field, 

And  shovcll’d  up  into  some  bloody 
trench 

Where  no  one  knows  ? but  let  me  live 
my  life. 


“Oh!  who  would  cast  and  balance 
at  a desk, 

Perch’d  like  a crow  upon  a three- 
legg’d  stool, 

Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his 
joints 

Are  full  of  chalk  1 but  let  me  live  my 
life. 

“ Who’d  serve  the  state  ? for  if  I 
carved  my  name 

Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native 
land, 

I might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the 
sands ; 

The  sea  wastes  all : but  let  me  live  my 
life. 

“Oh!  who  would  love?  I woo’d  a 
woman  once, 

But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern 
wind. 

And  all  my  heart  turn’d  from  her,  as 
a thorn 

Turns  from  the  sea ; but  let  me  live 
my  life.” 

He  sang  his  song,  and  I replied  with 
mine : 

I found  it  in  a volume,  all  of  songs. 

Knock’d  down  to  me,  when  old  Sir 
Robert’s  pride, 

His  books  — the  more  the  pity,  so  I 
said  — 

Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March  — 
and  this  — 

I set  the  words,  and  added  names  I 
knew. 

“ Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,  and 
dream  of  me : 

Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister’s  arm, 

And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is 
mine. 

“ Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia’s 
arm; 

Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 

For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 

“ Sleep,  breathing  health  and  peace 
upon  her  breast : 

Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against 
her  lip : 

I go  to-night : I come  to-morrow  morn. 

“I  go,  but  I return : I would  I were 

The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the 
dream. 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


89 


Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream 
of  me.” 

So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Erancis 
Hale, 

The  farmer’s  son,  who  lived  across  the 
hay, 

My  friend ; and  I,  that  having  where- 
withal, 

And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life 

A rolling  stone  of  here  and  every- 
where, 

Did  what  I would;  but  ere  the  night 
we  rose 

And  saunter’d  home  beneath  a moon, 
that,  just 

In  crescent,  dimly  rain’d  about  the 
leaf 

Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach’d 

The  limit  of  the  hills ; and  as  we  sank 

Erom  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming 
quay, 

The  town  was  hush’d  beneath  us : 
lower  down 

The  bay  was  oily  calm ; the  harbor 
buoy, 

Sole  star  of  phosphorescence  in  the 
calm, 

With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 

Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at 
heart. 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 

John.  I’m  glad  I walk’d.  How  fresh 
the  meadows  look 

Above  the  river,  and,  but  a month  ago, 

The  whole  hill-side  was  redder  than  a 
fox. 

Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway 
joins 

The  turnpike? 

James.  Yes. 

John.  And  when  does  this  come  by? 

James.  The  mail  ? At  one  o’clock. 

John.  What  is  it  now  ? 

James.  A quarter  to. 

John.  Whose  house  is  that  I see  ? 

No,  not  the  County  Member’s  with 
the  vane : 

Up  higher  with  the  yew-tree  by  it, 
and  half 


A score  of  gables. 

James.  That?  Sir  Edward  Head’s  : 

But  he’s  abroad : the  place  is  to  be 
sold. 

John.  Oh,  his.  He  was  not  broken. 

James.  No,  sir,  he, 

Yex’d  with  a morbid  devil  in  his 
blood 

That  veil’d  the  world  with  jaundice, 
hid  his  face 

From  all  men,  and  commercing  with 
himself. 

He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily 
life  — 

That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or 
less  — 

And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for 
change. 

John.  And  whither  ? 

James.  Nay,  who  knows  ? he’s  here 
and  there. 

But  let  him  go;  his  devil  goes  with 
him, 

As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky 
Dawes. 

John.  What’s  that? 

James.  You  saw  the  man  — on  Mon- 
day, was  it  ? — 

There  by  the  humpback’d  willow; 
half  stands  up 

And  bristles ; half  has  fall’n  and 
made  a bridge ; 

And  there  he  caught  the  younker 
tickling  trout  — 

Caught  in  flagrante  — what’s  the  Latin 
word  ? — 

Delicto : but  his  house,  for  so  they 
say, 

Was  haunted  with  a jolly  ghost,  that 
shook 

The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt 
at  doors, 

And  rummaged  like  a rat : no  servant 
stay’d : 

The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds 
and  chairs, 

And  all  his  household  stuff ; and  with 
his  boy 

Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the 
tilt, 

Sets  out,  and  meets  a friend  who  hails 
him,  “ What ! 


90 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


You’re  flitting!”  “Yes,  we’re  flit- 
ting,” says  the  ghost 

(For  they  had  pack’d  the  thing  among 
the  beds,) 

“Oh  well,”  says  he,  “you  flitting  with 
us  too  — 

Jack,  turn  the  horses’  heads  and  home 
again.” 

John.  He  left  his  wife  behind ; for 
so  I heard. 

James.  He  left  her,  yes.  I met  my 
lady  once : 

A woman  like  a butt,  and  harsh  as 
crabs. 

John.  Oh  yet  but  I remember,  ten 
years  back  — 

’Tis  now  at  least  ten  years  — and  then 
she  was  — 

You  could  not  light  upon  a sweeter 
thing : 

A body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a 
pear 

In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a hand,  a 
foot 

Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a 
skin 

As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it 
flowers. 

James.  Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades, 
and  they  that  loved 

At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat 
and  dog. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a cottager, 

Out  of  her  sphere.  What  betwixt 
shame  and  pride, 

New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her, 
she  sour’d 

To  what  she  is : a nature  never 
kind ! 

Like  men,  like  manners : like  breeds 
like,  they  say : 

Kind  nature  is  the  best:  those  man- 
ners next 

That  fit  us  like  a nature  second-hand  ; 

Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the 
great. 

John.  But  I had  heard  it  was  this 
bill  that  past, 

And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that 
drove  him  hence. 

James.  That  was  the  last  drop  in 
the  cup  of  gall. 


I once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff 
brought 

A Chartist  pike.  You  should  have 
seen  him  wince 

As  from  a venomous  thing : he  thought 
himself 

A mark  for  all,  and  shudder’d,  lest  a 
cry 

Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and 
his  nice  eyes 

Should  see  the  raw  mechanic’s  bloody 
thumbs 

Sweat  on  his  blazon’d  chairs , but,  sir, 
you  know 

That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the 
world  — 

Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that 
have : and  still 

The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from 
age  to  age 

With  much  the  same  result.  Now  I 
myself, 

A Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a boy 

Destructive,  when  I had  not  what  I 
would. 

I was  at  school  — a college  in  the 
South : 

There  lived  a flayflint  near;  we  stole 
his  fruit, 

His  hens,  his  eggs ; but  there  was  law 
for  us ; 

We  paid  in  person.  He  had  a sow, 
sir.  She, 

With  meditative  grunts  of  much  con- 
tent, 

Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun 
and  mud. 

By  night  we  dragg’d  her  to  the  col- 
lege tower 

From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  cork- 
screw stair 

With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the 
groaning  sow, 

And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she 
pigg’d. 

Large  range  of  prospect  had  the 
mother  sow, 

And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved 

As  one  by  one  we  took  them  — but  for 
this  — 

As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this 
world  — 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 


91 


Might  have  been  happy  : but  what  lot 
is  pure  ? 

We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left 
alone 

Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine, 

And  so  return’d  unfarrow’d  to  her 
sty. 

John.  They  found  you  out  ? 

James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well  — after  all  — 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a 
man  ? 

His  nerves  were  wrong.  What  ails 
us,  who  are  sound, 

That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool 
the  world, 

Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse 
blacks  or  whites, 

As  ruthless  as  a baby  with  a worm, 

As  cruel  as  a schoolboy  ere  he  grows 

To  Pity  — more  from  ignorance  than 
will. 

But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or 
I fear 

That  we  shall  miss  the  mail : and  here 
it  comes 

With  five  at  top  : as  quaint  a four-in- 
hand 

As  you  shall  see  — three  pyebalds  and 
a roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS; 

OR,  THE  LAKE. 

O me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake, 

My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters 
of  a year, 

My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 

Of  city  life  ! I was  a sketcher  then  : 

See  here,  my  doing : curves  of  moun- 
tain, bridge, 

Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a castle,  built 

When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a 
rock 

With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a rock  : 

And  here,  new-comers  in  an  ancient 
hold, 

New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  million- 
aires, 

Here  lived  the  Hills  — a Tudor-chim- 
nied  bulk 


Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of 
bowers. 

0 me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the 
lake 

With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward 
Bull 

The  curate ; he  was  fatter  than  his 
cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 
names, 

Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss 
and  fern, 

Who  forged  a thousand  theories  of  the 
rocks, 

Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row, 
to  swim, 

Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good, 

His  own  — I call’d  him  Crichton,  for 
he  seem’d 

All-perfect,  finish’d  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I ask’d  him  of  his  early 
life, 

And  his  first  passion ; and  he  answer’d 
me ; 

And  well  his  words  became  him  : was 
he  not 

A full-cell’d  honeycomb  of  eloquence 

Stored  from  all  flowers  ? Poet-like  he 
spoke. 

“My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I ; 

But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to 
that, 

And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love 
for  her. 

My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for 
her, 

Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters 
grew, 

Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 

To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the 
sun, 

And  some  full  music  seem’d  to  move 
and  change 

With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the 
dark, 

And  either  twilight  and  the  day  be- 
tween ; 

For  daily  hope  fulfill’d,  to  rise  again 


92 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 


Revolving  toward  fulfilment,  made  it 
sweet 

To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  wake,  to 
breathe.” 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he 
spoke. 

Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate  Edward 
Bull, 

“ I take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for 
the  man, 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 
world. 

A pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 

To  have  a dame  indoors,  that  trims  us 
up, 

And  keeps  us  tight ; but  these  unreal 
ways 

Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and 
indeed 

Worn  threadbare.  Man  is  made  of 
solid  stuff. 

I say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the 
man, 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 
world.” 

“ Parson,”  said  I,  “ you  pitch  the  pipe 
too  low  : 

But  I have  sudden  touches,  and  can 
run 

My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his  : 

Tho’  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 

I do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 

I scarce  have  other  music  : yet  say  on. 

What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such 
a dream  ? ” 

I ask’d  him  half-sardonically. 

“ Give  ? 

Give  all  thou  art,”  he  answer’d,  and  a 
light 

Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy 
cheek ; 

“ I would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my 
heart, 

To  save  her  little  finger  from  a scratch 

No  deeper  than  the  skin : my  ears 
could  hear 

Her  lightest  breath ; her  least  remark 
was  worth 

The  experience  of  the  wise.  I went 
and  came ; 


Her  voice  fled  always  thro’  the  summer 
land ; 

I spoke  her  name  alone.  Thrice-happy 
days ! 

The  flower  of  each,  those  moments 
when  we  met, 

The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no 
more.” 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I a 
beast 

To  take  them  as  I did  1 but  something 
jarr’d  ; 

Whether  he  spoke  too  largely ; that 
there  seem’d 

A touch  of  something  false,  some  self- 
conceit, 

Or  over-smoothness : howsoe’er  it  was, 

He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I said : 

“ Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  your- 
self alone 

Of  all  men  happy.  Shall  not  Love  to 
me, 

As  in  the  Latin  song  I learnt  at  school, 

Sneeze  out  a full  God-bless-you  right 
and  left  ? 

But  you  can  talk : yours  is  a kindly 
vein : 

I have,  I think,  — Heaven  knows  — as 
much  within ; 

Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a 
thought  or  two, 

That  like  a purple  beech  among  the 
greens 

Looks  out  of  place  : ’tis  from  no  want 
in  her : 

It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust, 

Or  something  of  a wayward  modern 
mind 

Dissecting  passion.  Time  will  set  me 
right.” 

So  spoke  I knowing  not  the  things 
that  were. 

Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 
Bull: 

“ God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of 
man, 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the 
world.” 


EDWIN  MORRIS;  OR,  THE  LAKE . 


93 


And  I and  Edwin  laughed ; and  now 
we  paused 

About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to 
hear 

The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy 
holms 

And  alders,  garden-isles  ; and  now  we 
left 

The  clerk  behind  us,  I and  he,  and  ran 

By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake, 

Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the 
sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on 
their  crags, 

My  suit  had  wither’d,  nipt  to  death  by 
him 

That  was  a God,  and  is  a lawyer’s  clerk, 

The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 

’Tis  true,  we  met;  one  hour  I had,  no 
more : 

She  sent  a note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous 
suit, 

The  close,  “ Your  Letty,  only  yours  ” ; 
and  this 

Thrice  underscored.  The  friendly 
mist  of  morn 

Clung  to  the  lake.  I boated  over,  ran 

My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with 
beating  heart 

The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelv- 
ing keel ; 

And  out  I stept,  and  up  I crept : she 
moved, 

Like  Proserpine  in  Enna,  gathering 
flowers  : 

Then  low  and  sweet  I whistled  thrice ; 
and  she, 

She  turn’d,  we  closed,  we  kiss’d,  swore 
faith,  I breathed 

In  some  new  planet : a silent  cousin 
stole 

Upon  us  and  departed  : “ Leave,”  she 
cried, 

“ O leave  me!”  “Never,  dearest, 
never : here 

I brave  the  worst : ” and  while  we 
stood  like  fools 

Embracing,  all  at  once  a score  of  pugs 

And  poodles  yell’d  within,  and  out 
they  came 

Trustees  and  Aunts  and  Uncles. 


“ What,  with  him  ! 

Go”  (shrill’d  the  cotton-spinning 
chorus);  “him!” 

I choked.  Again  they  shriek’d  the 
burthen  — “ Him  ! ” 

Again  with  hands  of  wild  rejection 
“ Go ! — 

Girl,  get  you  in  ! ” She  went  — and  in 
one  month 

They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand 
pounds, 

To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in 
York, 

And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery 
smile 

And  educated  whisker.  But  for  me. 

They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to 
work : 

It  seems  I broke  a close  with  force 
and  arms : 

There  came  a mystic  token  from  the 
king 

To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy ! 

I read,  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying 
turn’d  : 

Her  taper  glimmer’d  in  the  lake  be- 
low : 

I turn’d  once  more,  close-button’d  to 
the  storm ; 

So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have 
seen 

Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared 
to  hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear  ? perhaps : yet 
long  ago 

I have  pardon’d  little  Letty ; not  in- 
deed, 

It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but 
this, 

She  seems  a part  of  those  fresh  days 
to  me ; 

For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  Lon- 
don life 

She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the 
lake, 

While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his 
wing,  or  then 

While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  over- 
head 

The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the 
summer  crag. 


94 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 

Altho’  I be  the  basest  of  mankind, 

From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and 
crust  of  sin, 

Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven, 
scarce  meet 

For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blas- 
phemy, 

I will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I 
hold 

Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn 
and  sob, 

Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with 
storms  of  prayer, 

Have  mercy,  Lord,  and  take  away  my 
sin. 

Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty 
God, 

This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten 
years, 

Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman 
pangs, 

In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and 
cold, 

In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous 
throes  and  cramps, 

A sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the 
cloud. 

Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I have  borne 

Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp, 
and  sleet,  and  snow ; 

And  I had  hoped  that  ere  this  period 
closed 

Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into 
thy  rest, 

Denying  not  these  weather-beaten 
limbs 

The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe 
and  the  palm. 

O take  the  meaning,  Lord : I do  not 
breathe, 

Not  whisper,  any  murmur  of  com- 
plaint. 

Pain  heap’d  ten-hundred-fold  to  this, 
were  still 

Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to 
bear, 

Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin, 
that  crush’d 

My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O Lord,  Lord, 


Thou  knowest  I bore  this  better  at 
the  first, 

For  I was  strong  and  hale  of  body 
then ; 

And  tho’  my  teeth,  which  now  are 
dropt  away, 

Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all 
my  beard 

Was  tagg’d  with  icy  fringes  in  the 
moon, 

I drown’d  the  Avhoopings  of  the  owl 
with  sound 

Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and 
sometimes  saw 

An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I 
sang. 

Now  am  I feeble  grown;  my  end 
draws  nigh ; 

I hope  my  end  draws  nigh  : half  deaf 
I am, 

So  that  I scarce  can  hear  the  people 
hum 

About  the  column’s  base,  and  almost 
blind, 

And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I 
know ; 

And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with 
the  dew; 

Yet  cease  I not  to  clamor  and  to 
cry, 

While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my 
weary  head, 

Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from 
the  stone, 

Have  mercy,  mercy:  take  away  my 
sin. 

O Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my 
soul, 

Who  may  be  saved  ? who  is  it  may  be 
saved  ? 

Who  may  be  made  a saint,  if  I fail 
here  ? 

Show  me  the  man  hath  suffer’d  more 
than  I. 

For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one 
death  ? 

For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  cruci- 
fied, 

Or  burn’d  in  fire,  or  boil’d  in  oil,  or 
sawn 

In  twain  beneath  the  ribs ; but  I die 
here 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


95 


To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a life 
of  death 

Bear  witness,  if  I could  have  found  a 
way 

(And  heedfully  I sifted  all  my 
thought) 

More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this 
home 

Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I despise  and 
hate, 

I had  not  stinted  practice,  0 my  God. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punish- 
ment, 

Not  this  alone  I bore : but  while  I 
lived 

In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley 
there, 

For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I wore 

The  robe  that  haled  the  buckets  from 
the  well, 

Twisted  as  tight  as  I could  knot  the 
noose ; 

And  spake  not  of  it  to  a single  soul, 

Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro’  my  skin, 

Betray’d  my  secret  penance,  so  that 
all 

My  brethren  marvell’d  greatly.  More 
than  this 

I bore,  whereof,  0 God,  thou  knowest 
all. 

Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might 
grow  to  thee, 

I lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain 
side. 

My  right  leg  chain’d  into  the  crag,  I 
lay 

Pent  in  a roofless  close  of  ragged 
stones ; 

Inswathed  sometimes  in  wandering 
mist,  and  twice 

Black’d  with  thy  branding  thunder, 
and  sometimes 

Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and 
eating  not, 

Except  the  spare  chance-gift  of  those 
that  ?ame 

To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal’d,  and 
live : 

And  they  say  then  that  I work’d  mir- 
acles, 

Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst 
mankind, 


Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers. 
Thou,  O God, 

Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 

Have  mercy,  mercy ! cover  all  my  sin. 

Then,  that  I might  be  more  alone 
with  thee, 

Three  years  I lived  upon  a pillar, 
high 

Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of 
twelve ; 

And  twice  three  years  I crouch’d  on 
one  that  rose 

Twenty  by  measure;  last  of  all,  I 
grew 

Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to 
this, 

That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the 
soil. 

I think  that  I have  borne  as  much 
as  this  — 

Or  else  I dream  — and  for  so  long  a 
time, 

If  I may  measure  time  by  yon  slow 
light, 

And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow 
crowns  — 

So  much — even  so. 

And  yet  I know  not  well, 

For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and 
say, 

“Fall  down,  0 Simeon:  that  hast 
suffer’d  long 

For  ages  and  for  ages!”  then  they 
prate 

Of  penances  I cannot  have  gone  thro’, 

Perplexing  me  with  lies;  and  oft  I 
fall, 

Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind 
lethargies 

That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time 
are  choked. 

But  yet 

Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and 
all  the  saints 

Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men 
on  earth 

House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable 
roofs, 

Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  whole- 
some food, 

And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even 
beasts  have  stalls, 


96 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


I,  ’tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of 
the  light, 

Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hun- 
dred times, 

To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the 
saints ; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a little  sleep, 

I wake  : the  chill  stars  sparkle  ; I am 
wet 

With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with 
crackling  frost. 

I wear  an  undress’d  goatskin  on  my 
back ; 

A grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my 
neck ; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I lift  the 
cross, 

And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till 
I die: 

0 mercy,  mercy ! wash  away  my  sin. 

O Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a man 

I am ; 

A sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in 
sin : 

'Tis  their  own  doing;  this  is  none  of 
mine ; 

Lay  it  not  to  me.  Am  I to  blame  for 
this, 

That  here  come  those  that  worship 
me  1 Ha  ! ha ! 

They  think  that  I am  somewhat. 
What  am  I ? 

The  silly  people  take  me  for  a saint, 

And  bring  me  offerings  of  fruit  and 
flowers : 

And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness 
here) 

Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and 
more 

Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose 
names 

Are  register’d  and  calendar’d  for 
saints. 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to 
me. 

What  is  it  I can  have  done  to  merit 
this  ? 

1 am  a sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  I have  wrought  some  mira- 
cles, 

And  cured  some  halt  and  maim’d ; but 
what  of  that  'i 


It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the 
saints, 

May  match  his  pains  with  mine  ; but 
what  of  that  ? 

Yet  do  not  rise ; for  you  may  look  on 
me, 

And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel 
to  God. 

Speak ! is  there  any  of  you  halt  or 
maim’d  1 

I think  you  know  I have  some  power 
with  Heaven 

From  my  long  penance  : let  him  speak 
his  wish. 

Yes,  I can  heal  him.  Power  goes 
forth  from  me. 

They  say  that  they  are  heal’d.  Ah, 
hark ! they  shout 

“ St.  Simeon  Stylites.”  Why,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a harvest  in  me.  O my  soul, 
God  reaps  a harvest  in  thee.  If  this  be, 
Can  I work  miracles  and  not  be  saved  1 
This  is  not  told  of  any.  They  were 
saints. 

It  cannot  be  but  that  I shall  be  saved ; 
Yea,  crown’d  a saint.  They  shout, 
“ Behold  a saint ! ” 

And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon  ! This  dull  chrys- 
alis 

Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope 
ere  death 

Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that 
God  hath  now 

Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimeful 
record  all 

My  mortal  archives. 

O my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men  ; I,  Simeon, 

The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end ; 
I,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine 
bakes ; 

I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours 
become 

Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here 
proclaim 

That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Show’d  like  fair  seraphs.  On  the  coals 
I lay, 

A vessel  full  of  sin : all  hell  beneath 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


97 


Made  me  boil  over.  Devils  pluck’d 
my  sleeve, 

Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 

I smote  them  with  the  cross;  they 
swarm’d  again. 

In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they 
crush’d  my  chest : 

They  flapp’d  my  light  out  as  I read  : I 
saw 

Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my 
book ; 

With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hog- 
gish whine 

They  burst  my  prayer.  Yet  this  way 
was  left, 

And  by  this  way  I ’scaped  them. 
Mortify 

Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges 
and  with  thorns ; 

Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.  If  it 
may  be,  fast 

Whole  Lents,  and  pray.  I hardly, 
with  slow  steps, 

With  slow,  faint  steps,  and  much 
exceeding  pain, 

Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire, 
that  still 

Sing  in  mine  ears.  But  yield  not  me 
the  praise : 

God  only  through  his  bounty  hath 
thought  fit, 

Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this 
world, 

To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 

Which  few  can  reach  to.  Yet  I do 
not  say 

But  that  a time  may  come  — yea,  even 
now, 

Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the 
threshold  stairs 

Of  life  — I say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 

When  you  may  worship  me  without 
reproach ; 

For  I will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land, 

And  you  may  carve  a shrine  about 
my  dust, 

And  burn  a fragrant  lamp  before  my 
bones, 

When  I am  gather’d  to  the  glorious 
saints. 

While  I spake  then,  a sting  of 
shrewdest  pain 


Ran  shrivelling  thro’  me,  and  a cloud- 
like change, 

In  passing,  with  a grosser  film  made 
thick 

These  heavy,  horny  eyes.  The  end  l 
the  end ! 

Surely  the  end ! What’s  here  ? a 
shape,  a shade, 

A flash  of  light.  Is  that  the  angel 
there 

That  holds  a crown  7 Come,  blessed 
brother,  come. 

I know  thy  glittering  face.  . I waited 
long ; 

My  brows  are  ready.  What ! deny  it 
now  ? 

Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.  So  I 
clutch  it.  Christ ! 

’Tis  gone : ’tis  here  again ; the  crown ! 
the  crown  ! 

So  now  ’tis  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me, 

And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 

Sweet!  sweet!  spikenard,  and  balnn 
and  frankincense. 

Ah  ! let  me  not  be  fool’d,  sweet  saints; 
I trust 

That  I am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet 
for  Heaven. 

Speak,  if  there  be  a priest,  a man 
of  God, 

Among  you  there,  and  let  him  pres- 
ently 

Approach,  and  lean  a ladder  on  the 
shaft, 

And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home, 

Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament ; 

For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

I prophesy  that  I shall  die  to-night, 

A quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  O Lord, 

Aid  all  this  foolish  people ; let  them 
take 

Example,  pattern:  lead  them  to  thy 
light. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls ; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I see  the  moulder’d  Abbey-walls, 
That  stand  within  the  chace. 


98 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 
Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke ; 

And  ah ! with  what  delighted  eyes 
I turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began, 

Ere  that,  which  in  me  burned, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a man, 
Could  hope  itself  return’d ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 
I spoke  without  restraint, 

And  with  a larger  faith  appeal’d 
Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I talk’d  with  him  apart, 

And  told  him  of  my  choice, 

Until  he  plagiarized  a heart, 

And  answer’d  witli  a voice. 

Tho’  what  he  whisper’d  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand ; 

I found  him  garrulously  given, 

A babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I heard  him  make  reply 
Is  many  a weary  hour ; 

’Twere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 
If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I carved  her  name, 
If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 

As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs.  — 

“ 0 Walter,  I have  shelter’d  here 
Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year 
Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

“Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat, 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek, 

Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

“ Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter’s-pence, 
And  number’d  bead,  and  shrift, 


Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence 
And  turn’d  the  cowls  adrift : 

“ And  I have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces,  that  would  thrive 
When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five ; 

“And  all  that  from  the  town  would 
stroll, 

Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 
In  which  the  gloomy  brewer’s  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a stork  : 

“ The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood, 
And  others,  passing  praise, 
Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 
For  puritanic  stays : 

“ And  I have  shadow’d  many  a group 
Of  beauties,  that  were  born 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn ; 

“And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 
About  me  leap’d  and  laugh’d 
The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day, 

And  shrill’d  his  tinsel  shaft. 

“I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 
Each  leaf  into  a gall) 

This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 
Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

“For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature’s  law, 
Have  faded  long  ago ; 

But  in  these  latter  springs  I saw 
Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

“From  when  she  gamboll’d  on  the 
greens 

A baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 
Could  number  five  from  ten. 

“ I swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 
That,  tho’  I circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

“ Yet,  since  I first  could  cast  a shade, 
Did  never  creature  pass 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


99 


So  slightly,  musically  made, 

So  light  upon  the  grass  : 

“ For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh,  • 

I hold  them  exquisitely  knit, 

But  far  too  spare  of  flesh.” 

Oh,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 
And  overlook  the  chace ; 

And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I carved  her  name, 
That  oft  has  heard  my  vows, 
Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

“ 0 yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 
Was  holden  at  the  town ; 

Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 
And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

“ And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his. 

I look’d  at  him  with  joy  : 

As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is, 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

“An  hour  had  past  — and,  sitting 
straight 

Within  the  low- wheel’d  chaise, 

Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

“ But  as  for  her,  she  stay’d  at  home, 
And  on  the  roof  she  went, 

And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come, 
She  look’d  with  discontent. 

“ She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 
Upon  the  rosewood  shelf ; 

She  left  the  new  piano  shut : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

‘Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 
And  livelier  than  a lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro’  all  the  holt 
Before  her,  and  the  park. 

“ A light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 
And  in  the  chase  grew  wild, 

As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 
About  the  darling  child: 


“ But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 
So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 

The  flower,  she  touch’d  on,  dipt  and 
rose, 

And  turn’d  to  look  at  her. 

“ And  here  she  came,  and  round  me 
play’d, 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 
About  my  ‘ giant  bole  ; ’ 

“ And  in  a fit  of  frolic  mirth 
She  strove  to  span  my  waist : 

Alas,  I was  so  broad  of  girth, 

I could  not  be  embraced. 

“ I wish’d  myself  the  fair  young  beech 
That  here  beside  me  stands, 

That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 
She  might  have  lock’d  her  hands. 

“Yet  seem’d  the  pressure  thrice  as 
sweet 

As  woodbine’s  fragile  hold, 

Or  when  I feel  about  my  feet 
The  berried  briony  fold.” 

O muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 
And  shadow  Sumner-chace ! 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 
I carved  with  many  vows 
When'last  with  throbbing  heart  I came 
To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  'i 

“O  yes,  she  wander’d  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 

And  found,  and  kiss’d  the  name  she 
found, 

And  sweetly  murmur’d  thine. 

“ A teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 
And  down  my  surface  crept. 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 
But  I believe  she  wept. 

“Then  flush’d  her  cheek  with  rosy 
light, 

She  glanced  across  the  plain; 


100 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


But  not  a creature  was  in  sight : 

She  kiss’d  me  once  again. 

“ Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind, 
That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 

Hard  wood  I am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 
But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr’d : 

“ And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 
A pleasure  I discern’d, 

Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 
That  show  the  year  is  turn’d. 

“ Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet’s  waving  balm  — 

The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may 
press 

The  maiden’s  tender  palm. 

“ I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 
But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 
With  anthers  and  with  dust : 

“ For  ah ! my  friend,  the  days  were 
brief 

Whereof  the  poets  talk, 

When  that,  which  breathes  within  the 
leaf. 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

“ But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem, 
Have  suck’d  and  gather’d  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

“ She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss ; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro’, 

I would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss, 
With  usury  thereto.” 

0 flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 
And  overlook  the  lea, 

Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers 
But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

0 flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern, 

Old  oak,  I love  thee  well; 

A thousand  thanks  for  what  I learn 
And  what  remains  to  tell. 


“ ’Tis  little  more  : the  day  was  warm  , 
At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 

She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm 
And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

“ Her  eyelids  dropp’d  their  silken 
eaves. 

I breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro’  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 
A welcome  mix’d  with  sighs. 

“ I took  the  swarming  sound  of  life  — 
The  music  from  the  town  — 

The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife 
And  lull’d  them  in  my  own. 

“ Sometimes  I let  a sunbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  shaded  eye ; 

A second  flutter’d  round  her  lip 
Like  a golden  butterfly ; 

“ A third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine ; 
Another  slid,  a sunny  fleck, 

From  head  to  ankle  fine, 

“ Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I 
spread, 

And  shadow’d  all  her  rest  — 

Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

“ But  in  a pet  she  started  up, 

And  pluck’d  it  out,  and  drew 
My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 

And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

“ And  yet  it  was  a graceful  gift  — 

I felt  a pang  within 
As  when  I see  the  woodman  lift 
His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

“ I shook  him  down  because  he  was 
The  finest  on  the  tree. 

He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 

0 kiss  him  once  for  me. 

“ 0 kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 
That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 

For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 
Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this.” 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


101 


Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  tliro’  the  chace, 
Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest, 
That  but  a moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 
Some  happy  future  day. 

I kiss  it  twice,  I kiss  it  thrice, 

The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 
To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset, 

Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint, 

That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 
From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O rock  upon  thy  towery-top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 
The  full  south-breeze  around  thee 
blow 

The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 
That  under  deeply  strikes  ! 

The  northern  morning  o’er  thee  shoot, 
High  up,  in  silver  spikes ! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 
But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 

Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 
That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep  ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a solemn  oath, 
That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 


And  when  my  marriage  morn  may 
fall, 

She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 
Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 
Than  bard  has  honor’d  beech  or  lime, 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth, 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdove  sat, 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  belowr  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  humm’d  a surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly 
close, 

What  sequel  7 Streaming  eyes  and 
breaking  hearts  7 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  7 
Not  so.  Shall  Error  in  the  round 
of  time 

Still  father  Truth  7 O shall  the  brag- 
gart shout 

For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom 
work  itself 

Thro’  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to 
law 

System  and  empire  1 Sin  itself  be 
found 

The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the 
Sun  7 

And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  be- 
come 

Mere  highway  dust  'i  or  year  by  year 
alone 

Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a life, 

Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of 
himself  7 

If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed, 
were  all, 

Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony 
heart, 


102 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


The  staring  eye  glazed  o’er  with  sap- 
less days, 

The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 

The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 

But  am  I not  the  nobler  thro’  thy 
love  7 

O three  times  less  unworthy  ! likewise 
thou 

Art  more  thro’  Love,  and  greater  than 
thy  years 

The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the 
Moon 

Her  circle.  Wait,  and  Love  himself 
will  bring 

The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge 
changed  to  fruit 

Of  wisdom.  Wait:  my  faith  is  large 
in  Time, 

And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  per- 
fect end. 

Will  some  one  say,  Then  why  not  ill 
for  good  7 

Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime  7 . To 
that  man 

My  work  shall  answer,  since  I knew 
the  right 

And  did  it ; for  a man  is  not  as  God, 

But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a 
man. 

— So  let  me  think  ’tis  well  for  thee 
and  me  — 

Ill-fated  that  I am,  what  lot  is  mine 

Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my 
heart  so  slow 

To  feel  it ! Tor  how  hard  it  seem’d  to 

me, 

When  eyes,  love-languid  thro’  half 
tears  would  dwell 

One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon 
mine, 

Then  not  to  dare  to  see  ! when  thy  low 
voice, 

Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to 
keep 

My  own  full-tuned, — hold  passion  in 
a leash, 

And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy 
neck, 

And  on  thy  bosom  (deep  desired 
relief!) 

Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that 
weigh’d 


Upon  my  brain,  my  senses  and  my  soul ! 

For  Love  himself  took  part  against 
himself 

To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of 
Love  — 

O this  world’s  curse,  — beloved  but 
hated  — came 

Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace 
and  mine, 

And  crying,  “ Who  is  this  ? behold 
thy  bride,” 

She  push’d  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 

To  alien  ears,  I did  not  speak  to  these  — 

No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  thyself  in  me  : 

Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine : thou 
kriowest  it  all. 

Could  Love  part  thus?  was  it  not 
well  to  speak, 

To  have  spoken  once  7 It  could  not 
but  be  well. 

The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all 
things  good, 

The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all 
things  ill, 

And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought 
the  night 

In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 

And  to  the  want,  that  hollow’d  all  the 
heart, 

Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an 
eye, 

That  burn’d  upon  its  object  thro’  such 
tears 

As  flow  but  once  a life. 

The  trance  gave  way 

To  those  caresses,  when  a hundred 
times 

In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the 
last, 

Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived 
and  died. 

Then  follow’d  counsel,  comfort,  and 
the  words 

That  make  a man  feel  strong  in  speak- 
ing truth; 

Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  over- 
head 

The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise 
mix’d 

In  that  brief  night ; the  summer  night, 
that  paused 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 


103 


Among  her  stars  to  hear  us;  stars 
that  hung 

Love-charm’d  to  listen  : all  the  wheels 
of  Time 

Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end 
had  come. 

O then  like  those,  who  clench  their 
nerves  to  rush 

Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 

There  — closing  like  an  individual 
life  — 

In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of 
pain, 

Like  bitter  accusation  ev’n  to  death, 

Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and 
utter’d  it, 

And  bade  adieu  for  ever. 

Live  — yet  live  — 

Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  know- 
ing all 

Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to 
will  — 

Live  happy ; tend  thy  flowers ; be 
tended  by 

My  blessing ! Should  my  Shadow 
cross  thy  thoughts 

Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it 
thou 

For  calmer  hours  to  Memory’s  dark- 
est hold, 

If  not  to  be  forgotten  — not  at 
once  — 

Not  all  forgotten.  Should  it  cross 
thy  dreams, 

O might  it  come  like  one  that  looks 
content, 

With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the 
truth, 

And  point  thee  forward  to  a distant 
light. 

Or  seem  to  lift  a burthen  from  thy 
heart 

And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake 
refresh’d 

Then  when  the  first  low  matin-chirp 
hath  grown 

Full  quire,  and  morning  driv’n  her 
plow  of  pearl 

Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded 
rack, 

Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  east- 
ern sea. 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which 
Leonard  wrote : 

It  was  last  summer  on  a tour  in  Wales  : 

Old  James  was  with  me  : we  that  day 
had  been 

Up  Snowdon  ; and  I wish’d  for  Leon- 
ard there, 

And  found  him  in  Llanberis : then  we 
crost 

Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber’d  half 
way  up 

The  counter  side  ; and  that  same  song 
of  his 

He  told  me ; for  I banter’d  him,  and 
swore 

They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within 
himself, 

A tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous 
days, 

That,  setting  the  how  much  before  the 
how , 

Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse- 
leech, “ Give, 

Cram  us  with  all,”  but  count  not  me 
the  herd ! 

To  which  “They  call  me  what  they 
will,”  he  said : 

“ But  I was  born  too  late  : the  fair  new 
forms, 

That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an 
age, 

Like  truths  of  Science  waiting  to  be 
caught  — 

Catch  me  who  can,  and  make  the 
catcher  crown’d  — - 

Are  taken  by  the  forelock.  Let  it  be. 

But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen, 
hear 

These  measured  words,  my  work  of 
yestermorn. 

“We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but 
all  things  move; 

The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother 
Sun  ; 

The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel’d  in  her 
ellipse ; 

And  human  things  returning  on  them- 
selves 

Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden 
year. 


104 


UL  YSSES. 


“ Ah,  tho’  the  times,  when  some  new 
thought  can  hud, 

Are  but  as  poets’  seasons  when  they 
flower, 

Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the 
shore, 

Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their 
march, 

And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the 
golden  year. 

“When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest 
in  mounded  lief  ^s 

But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly 
melt 

In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 

And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be 
liker  man 

Thro’  all  the  season  of  the  golden 
year. 

“ Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ? wrens 
be  wrens  1 

If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of 
that  ? 

The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less, 

But  he  not  less  the  eagle.  Happy  days 

Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden 
year. 

“ Fly,  happy  happy  sails,  and  bear 
the  Press  ; 

Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the 
Cross ; 

Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  haven- 
ward 

With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear 
of  toll, 

Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

“ But  we  grow  old.  Ah  ! when  shall 
all  men’s  good 

Be  each  man’s  rule,  and  universal 
Peace 

Lie  like  a shaft  of  light  across  the  land, 

And  like  a lane  of  beams  athwart  the 
sea, 

Thro’  all  the  circle  of  the  golden 
year  ? ” 

Thus  far  he  flow’d,  and  ended; 
whereupon 

“ Ah,  folly  ! ” in  mimic  cadence  an- 
swer’d James  — 

“Ah,  folly!  for  it  lies  so  far  away, 

Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children’s 
time. 


’Tis  like  the  second  world  to  us  that 
live ; 

’Twere  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on 
Heaven 

As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year.” 
With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against 
Hie  rocks 

And  broke  it,  — James,  — you  know 
him,  — old,  but  full 

Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his 
feet, 

And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter 
woods, 

O’erflourisli’d  with  the  hoary  clematis : 

Then  added,  all  in  heat : 

“ What  stuff  is  this  ! 

Old  writers  push’d  the  happy  season 
back, — 

The  more  fools  they,  — we  forward: 
dreamers  both : 

You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every 
hour 

Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the 
death, 

Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seeds- 
man, rapt 

Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not 
plunge 

His  hand  into  the  bag:  but  well  I 
know 

That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels 
he  works, 

This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  the 
doors.” 

He  spoke  ; and,  high  above,  I heard 
them  blast 

The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great 
echo  flap 

And  buffet  round  the  hills,  from  bluff 
to  bluff. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  bar- 
ren crags, 

Match’d  with  an  aged  wife,  I mete  and 
dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and 
know  not  me. 


UL  YSSES. 


105 


I cannot  rest  from  travel : I will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees  : all  times  I have  en- 
joy’d 

Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both 
with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone ; on  shore, 
and  when 

Thro’  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea:  I am  become  a name; 
For  always  roaming  with  a hungry 
heart 

Much  have  I seen  and  known ; cities 
of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  gov- 
ernments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor’d  of  them 
all; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my 
peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy 
Troy. 

I am  a part  of  all  that  I have  met; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  where- 
thro’ 

Gleams  that  untravell’d  world,  whose 
margin  fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish’d,  not  to  shine  in 
use! 

As  tho’  to  breathe  were  life.  Life 
piled  on  life 

'Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  : but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something 
more, 

A bringer  of  new  things  ; and  vile  it 
were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 
myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a sinking 
star, 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human 
thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telema- 
chus, 

To  whom  I leave  the  sceptre  and  the 
isle  — 

Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make 
mild 


A rugged  people,  and  thro’  soft  degrees 

Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the 
good. 

Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the 
sphere 

Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 

Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 

When  I am  gone,  lie  works  his  work, 
I mine. 

There  lies  the  port ; the  vessel  puffs 
her  sail : 

There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.  My 
mariners, 

Souls  that  have  toil’d,  and  wrought, 
and  thought  with  me  — 

That  ever  with  a frolic  welcome  took 

The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and 
opposed 

Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  — you  and 
I are  old ; 

Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ; 

Death  closes  all : but  something  ere 
the  end, 

Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be 
done, 

Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with 
Gods. 

The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the 
rocks : 

The  long  day  wanes : the  slow  moon 
climbs : the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices. 
Come,  my  friends, 

’Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order 
smite 

The  sounding  furrows ; for  my  pur- 
pose holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the 
baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us 
down  : 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy 
Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we 
knew. 

Tho’  much  is  taken,  much  abides ; and 
tho’ 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which 
in  old  days 


106 


TITHONUS. 


Moved  earth  and  heaven  ; that  which 
we  are,  we  are  ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but 
strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to 
yield. 


TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay 
and  fall, 

The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the 
ground, 

Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies 
beneath, 

And  after  many  a summer  dies  the 
swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 

Consumes  : I wither  slowly  in  thine 
arms, 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 

A white-hair’d  shadow  roaming  like  a 
dream 

The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 

Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls 
of  morn. 

Alas  ! for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a 
man  — 

So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy 
choice, 

Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he 
seem’d 

To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a 
God! 

I ask’d  thee,  “ Give  me  immortality.” 

Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking 
with  a smile, 

Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how 
they  give. 

But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant 
work’d  their  wills, 

And  beat  me  down  and  marr’d  and 
wasted  me, 

And  tho’  they  could  not  end  me,  left 
me  maim’d 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal 
youth, 

Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 

And  all  I was,  in  ashes.  Can  thy 
love, 


Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho’  even 
now, 

Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy 
guide, 

Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that 
fill  with  tears 

To  hear  me  ? Let  me  go  : take  back 
thy  gift : 

Why  should  a man  desire  in  any  way 

To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 

Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 

Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most 
meet  for  all  ? 

A soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart ; 
there  comes 

A glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where 
I was  born. 

Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glim- 
mer steals 

From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy 
shoulders  pure, 

And  bosom  beating  with  a heart  re- 
new’d. 

Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro’  the 
gloom. 

Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close 
to  mine, 

Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the 
wild  team 

Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy 
yoke,  arise, 

And  shake  the  darkness  from  their 
loosen’d  manes, 

And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of 
fire. 

Lo  ! ever  thus  thou  growest  beauti- 
ful 

In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer 
given 

Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my 
cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with 
thy  tears, 

And  make  me  tremble  lest  a saying 
learnt, 

In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be 
true  ? 

“The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall 
their  gifts.” 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


107 


Ay  me ! ay  me ! with  what  another 
heart 

In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other 
eyes 

I used  to  watch — if  I be  he  that 
watch’d  — 

The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee ; 
saw 

The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings ; 

Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and 
felt  my  blood 

Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crim- 
son’d all 

Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I 
lay, 

Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing 
dewy-warm 

With  kisses  balmier  than  half-open- 
ing buds 

Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that 
kiss’d 

Whispering  I knew  not  what  of  wild 
and  sweet, 

Like  that  strange  song  I heard  Apollo 
sing, 

While  Ilion  like  a mist  rose  into 
towers. 


Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine 
East : 

How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with 
thine  ? 

Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me, 
cold 

Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my 
wrinkled  feet 

Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds, 
when  the  steam 

Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about 
the  homes 

Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power 
to  die, 

And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier 
dead. 

Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the 
ground ; 

Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 
grave : 

Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by 
morn ; 

I earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty 
courts, 

And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver 
wheels. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a little,  while  as  yet  ’tis  early  morn : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle-horn. 

’Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I went  to  rest, 

Did  I look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a night  I saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro’  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I wander’d,  nourishing  a youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a fruitful  land  reposed ; 

When  I clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed  j 


108 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


When  I dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see ; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be.  — 

In  the  Spring  a fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin’s  breast ; 

In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 

In  the  Spring  a livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish’d  dove ; 

In  the  Spring  a young  man’s  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a mute  observance  hung. 

And  I said,  “My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me, 

Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee.” 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a color  and  a light, 

As  I have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn’d  — her  bosom  shaken  with  a sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  “ I have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong  ” ; 
Saying,  “ Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ? ” weeping,  “ I have  loved  thee  long.  ’ 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn’d  it  in  his  glowing  hands ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might, 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass’d  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 

And  her  whisper  throng’d  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rush’d  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O my  cousin,  shallow-hearted ! O my  Amy,  mine  no  more ! 

O the  dreary,  dreary  moorland ! O the  barren,  barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung, 

Puppet  to  a father’s  threat,  and  servile  to  a shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ? — having  known  me  — to  decline 
On  a range  of  lower  feelings  and  a narrower  heart  than  mine ! 

Yet  it  shall  be : thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  : thou  art  mated  with  a clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down.  • 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


109 


He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this  ? his  eyes  are  heavy : think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him  : it  is  thy  duty  : kiss  him  : take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought : 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand  — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tlio’  I slew  thee  with  my  hand  ! 

Better  thou  and  I were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart’s  disgrace. 

Roll’d  in  one  another’s  arms,  and  silent  in  a last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth  ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature’s  rule ! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten’d  forehead  of  the  fool! 

Well  — ’tis  well  that  I should  bluster!  — Hadst  thou  less  unworthy 
proved  — 

W ould  to  God  — for  I had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I mad,  that  I should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit  ? 

I will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho’  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho’  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter’d  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  ? in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind  ? 

Can  I part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I knew  her,  kind  ? 

I remember  one  that  perish’d  : sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move  : 

Such  a one  do  I remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore  ? 

No  — she  never  loved  me  truly : love  is  love  for  evermore. 

Comfort  ? comfort  scorn’d  of  devils ! this  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 

That  a sorrow’s  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  prooi. 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall, 

Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep, 

To  thy  widow’d  marriage-pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 


no 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Thou  shalt  hear  the  “Never,  never,”  whisper’d  by  the  phantom  years. 
And  a song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow : get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace  ; for  a tender  voice  will  cry. 

’Tis  a purer  life  than  thine ; a lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down : my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother’s  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a dearness  not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  : it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 

With  a little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a daughter’s  heart. 

“ They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings  — she  herself  was  not 
exempt  — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer’d  ” — Perish  in  thy  self-contempt ! 

Overlive  it  — lower  yet  — be  happy!  wherefore  should  I care? 

I myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these  ? 
Every  door  is  barr’d  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng’d  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 

I have  but  an  angry  fancy  : what  is  that  which  I should  do  ? 

I had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman’s  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll’d  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels, 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other’s  heels. 

Can  I but  relive  in  sadness  ? I will  turn  that  earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  thy  deep  emotion,  O thou  wondrous  Mother-Age! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I felt  before  the  strife, 

When  I heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father’s  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn, 

Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men : 


Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother’s  breast.” 

Page  110. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Ill 


Men,  ray  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new  : 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  tiie  things  that  they  shall  do  : 

For  I dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain’d  a ghastly  dew 
Prom  the  nations’  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue ; 

Par  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro’  the  thunder-storm , 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb’d  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl’d 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I triumph’d  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro’  me  left  me  dry, 

Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye ; 

Eye  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint : 

Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point : 

Slowly  comes  a hungry  people,  as  a lion  creeping  nigher, 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I doubt  not  thro’  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen’d  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 

Tho’  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for  ever  like  a boy’s  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I linger  on  the  shore, 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn, 

They  t r.  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a target  for  their  scorn : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a moulder’d  string  ? 

I am  shamed  thro’  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a thing. 

W eakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness ! woman’s  pleasure,  woman’s  pain  — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a shallower  brain : 


112 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match’d  with  mine, 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.  Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr’d ; — 

I was  left  a trampled  orphan,  and  a selfish  uncle’s  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  — there  to  wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o’er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag  ; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom’d  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp’d  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing 
space ; 

I will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron  jointed,  supple-sinew’d,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run, 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun  ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot’s  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books  — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy ! but  I know  my  words  are  wild, 

But  I count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 

Like  a beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a beast  with  lower  pains ! • 

Mated  with  a squalid  savage  — what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime  1 
I the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time  — 

I that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua’s  moon  in  Ajalon ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward,  forward  let  us  range, 

Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro’  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day  : 

Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a cycle  of  Cathay. 


GODIVA. 


113 


Mother-Age  (for  mine  I knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun  : 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun- 

0,  I see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 

Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro’  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall ! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I go. 


GODIYA. 

I waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry  ; 

I hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the 
bridge, 

To  watch  the  three  tall  spires ; and  there 
I shaped 

The  city’s  ancient  legend  into  this : — 
Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 

New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a wheel 

Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that 
prate 

Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the 
people  well, 

And  loathed  to  see  them  over-tax’d ; 
but  she 

Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  over- 
came, 

The  woman  of  a thousand  summers 
back, 

Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who 
ruled 

In  Coventry : for  when  he  laid  a tax 

Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers 
brought 

Their  children,  clamoring,  “ If  we  pay, 
we  starve ! ” 

She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him, 
where  he  strode 

About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 

His  beard  a foot  before  him,  and  his 
hair 

A yard  behind.  She  told  him  of  their 
tears, 


And  pray’d  him,  “ If  they  pay  this  tax, 
they  starve.” 

Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half- 
amazed, 

“You  would  not  let  your  little  finger 
ache 

For  such  as  these  ?”  — “ But  I would 
die,”  said  she. 

He  laugh’d,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by 
Paul : 

Then  fillip’d  at  the  diamond  in  her 
ear; 

“ Oh  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  ! ” — “ Alas  ! ” 
she  said, 

“ But  prove  me  what  it  is  I would  not 
do.” 

And  from  a heart  as  rough  as  Esau’s 
hand, 

He  answer’d,  “ Ride  you  naked  thro’ 
the  town, 

And  I repeal  it  ” ; and  nodding,  as  in 
scorn, 

He  parted,  with  great  strides  among 
his  dogs. 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her 
mind, 

As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift 
and  blow, 

Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 

Till  pity  won.  She  sent  a herald  forth, 

And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of 
trumpet,  all 

The  hard  condition ; but  that  she 
would  loose 


114 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


The  people  : therefore,  as  they  loved 
her  well, 

From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should 
pace  the  street, 

No  eye  look  down,  she  passing;  but 
that  all 

Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and 
window  barr’d. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower, 
and  there 

Unclasp’d  the  wedded  eagles  of  her 
belt, 

The  grim  Earl’s  gift ; but  ever  at  a 
breath 

She  linger’d,  looking  like  a summer 
moon 

Half-dipt  in  clcud : anon  she  shook 
her  head, 

And  shower’d  the  rippled  ringlets  to 
her  knee ; 

Unclad  herself  in  haste;  adown  the 
stair 

Stole  on ; and,  like  a creeping  sun- 
beam, slid 

From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she 
reach’d 

The  gateway ; there  she  found  her 
palfrey  trapt 

In  purple  blazon’d  with  armorial 
gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 
chastity  : 

The  deep  air  listen’d  round  her  as  she 
rode, 

And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed 
for  fear. 

The  little  wide-mouth’d  heads  upon 
the  spout 

Had  cunning  eyes  to  see  : the  barking 
cur 

Made  her  cheek  flame : her  palfrey’s 
footfall  shot 

Like  horrors  thro’  her  pulses : the 
blind  walls 

Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes ; and 
overhead 

Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared : 
but  she 

Not  less  thro’  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she 
saw 

The  white-flower’d  elder-thicket  from 
the  field 


Gleam  thro’  the  Gothic  archway  in  the 
wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with 
chastity  : 

And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thank- 
less earth, 

The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 

Boring  a little  auger-hole  in  fear, 

Peep’d  — but  his  eyes,  before  they  had 
their  will, 

Were  shrivell’d  into  darkness  in  his 
head, 

And  dropt  before  him.  So  the  Powers, 
who  wait 

On  noble  deeds,  can^ell’d  a sense  mis- 
used ; 

And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass’d  : and 
all  at  once, 

With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound, 
the  shameless  noon 

Was  clash’d  and  hammer’d  from  a 
hundred  towers, 

One  after  one : but  even  then  she 
gain’d 

Her  bower ; whence  reissuing,  robed 
and  crown’d, 

To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax 
away 

And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak : 

A pleasant  hour  has  passed  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask 
cheek, 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 

As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I went  thro’  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming  — and,  behind, 
A summer  crisp  with  shining  woods. 
And  I too  dream’d,  until  at  last 
Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm, 
The  reflex  of  a legend  past, 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 

And  would  you  have  the  thought  I 
had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I saw, 

Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 
A crimson  to  the  quaint  Macaw7, 


She  lying  on  her  couch  alone.” 

Page  115. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


115 


And  I will  tell  it.  Turn  your  face, 
Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest 
eye  — 

The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their 
place, 

And  order’d  words  asunder  fly. 


THE  SLEEPING  PALACE. 

i. 

The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 
Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy 
plains, 

Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 
Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl’d, 
Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows 
come, 

Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 
To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 

ii. 

Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 
On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 

The  fountain  to  his  place  returns 
Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 
On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

in. 

Hoof-haunting  martins  warm  their 
eggs: 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay’d. 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 
Droop  sleepily  : no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of  a gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings, 
That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the 
wall. 

IV. 

Here  sits  the  Butler  with  a flask 
Between  his  knees,  half-drain’d ; and 
there 

The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task, 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair ; 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his : 
Her  lips  are  sever’d  as  to  speak : 


His  own  are  pouted  to  a kiss : 

The  blush  is  fix’d  upon  her  cheek. 

v. 

Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 
The  beams,  that  thro’  the  Oriel  shine, 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 
And  beaker  brimm’d  with  noble 
wine. 

Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 
Grave  faces  gather’d  in  a ring. 

His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 

He  must  have  been  a jovial  king. 

VI. 

All  round  a hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 
At  distance  like  a little  wood; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes, 
And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as 
blood ; 

All  creeping  plants,  a wall  of  green 
Close-matted,  burr  and  brake  and 
brier, 

And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 
High  up,  the  topmost  palace  spire. 

VII. 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 
And  thought  and  time  be  born  again, 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh, 
Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of 
men  ? 

Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 
As  all  were  order’d,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and 
Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purple  coverlet, 

The  maiden’s  jet-black  hair  has 
grown, 

On  either  side  her  tranced  form 
Forth  streaming  from  a braid  of 
pearl : 

The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 
And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


116 


THE  DA  /-DREAM. 


ii. 

The  silk  star-broider’d  coverlid 
Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 

Languidly  ever ; and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets  downward 
roll’d, 

Glows  forth  each  softly-shadow’d  arm 
With  bracelets  of  the  diamond 
bright : 

Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 
Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with 
light. 

hi. 

She  sleeps:  her  breathings  are  not 
heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 

The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr’d 
That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 

She  sleeps  : on  either  hand  upswells 
The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly 
prest : 

She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 
A perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 


THE  ARRIVAL. 


All  precious  things,  discover’d  late, 
To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth ; 
Eor  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 
And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden 
worth. 

He  travels  far  from  other  skies  — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 
A fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 


ii. 

The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 
That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 
Are  wither’d  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scatter’d  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead : 

“ They  perish’d  in  their  daring 
deeds.” 

This  proverb  flashes  thro’  his  head, 

“ The  many  fail : the  one  succeeds.” 


hi. 

He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he 
seeks : 

He  breaks  the  hedge : he  enters 
there : 

The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks : 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair; 

For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 
About  his  path,  and  hover  near 

With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 
And  whisper’d  voices  at  his  ear. 

IV. 

More  close  and  close  his  footsteps 
wind : 

The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 

Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 
The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 

The  spirit  flutters  like  a lark, 

He  stoops  — to  kiss  her  — on  his 
knee. 

“ Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark, 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must 
be ! ” 


THE  REVIVAL. 

A touch,  a kiss  ! the  charm  was  snapt. 
There  rose  a noise  of  striking  clocks, 

And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 
And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing 
cocks ; 

A fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A breeze  thro’  all  the  garden  swept, 

A sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

ii. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 
The  butler  drank,  the  steward 
scrawl’d, 

The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  scream’d,  the  peacock 
squall’d, 

The  maid  and  page  renew’d  their  strife, 
The  palace  bang’d,  and  buzz’d  and 
clackt, 

And  all  the  longrpent  stream  of  life 
Dash’d  downward  in  a cataract. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


117 


hi. 

And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke, 
And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear’d, 
And  yawn’d,  and  rubb’d  his  face,  and 
spoke, 

“ By  holy  rood,  a royal  beard ! 

How  say  you  ? we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap.” 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 
’Twas  but  an  after-dinner’s  nap. 

IV. 

“ Pardy,”  return’d  the  king,  “ but  still 
My  joints  are  somewhat  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 
I mention’d  half  an  hour  ago  ? ” 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  return’d  reply : 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 
And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 


THE  DEPARTURE. 


And  on  her  lover’s  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  this  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow’d  him. 

ii. 

“ I’d  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O love,  for  such  another  kiss ; ” 

“ O wake  for  ever,  love,”  she  hears, 

“ O love,  ’twas  such  as  this  and  this.” 
And  o’er  them  many  a sliding  star, 
And  many  a merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream’d  thro’  many  a golden  bar, 
The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

hi. 

“ O eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep ! ” 

“ 0 happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled ! ” 
“ O happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  ! ” 
“O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the 
dead ! ” 

And  o’er  them  many  a flowing  range 


Of  vapor  buoy’d  the  crescent-bark, 
And,  rapt  thro’  many  a rosy  change, 
The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

IV. 

“ A hundred  summers  ! can  it  be  ? 
And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me 
where  ? ” 

“ 0 seek  my  father’s  court  with  me, 
For  there  are  greater  wonders* 
there.” 

And  o’er  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 
Thro’  all  the  world  she  follow’d  him. 


MORAL. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 

Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say, 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 

Oh,  tc  what  uses  chall  we  put 

The  wildweed  flower  that  simply 
blows  ? 

And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 

ii. 

But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead, 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 

According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 

And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend  ; 

So  ’twere  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 
Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 


L’ENVOI. 


You  shake  your  head.  A random 
string 

Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 
Well  — were  it  not  a pleasant  thing 
To  fall  asleep  with  all  one’s  friends  ; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men ; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 


118 


AMPIIION. 


And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep 
again ; 

To  sleep  thro’  terms  of  mighty  wars, 
And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more, 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars, 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore ; 

And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 
The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours, 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow, 
The  Federations  and  the  Powers; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes ; 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 
And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 

ii. 

So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro’  sunny  decadesnewand  strange, 
Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The  flower  and  quintessence  of 
change. 

hi. 

Ah,  yet  would  I — and  would  I might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take  — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I might  kiss  those  eyes  awake ! 
For,  am  I right,  or  am  I wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not 
care ; 

You’d  have  my  moral  from  the  song, 
And  I will  take  my  pleasure  there  : 
And,  am  I right  or  am  I wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro’  and  thro’, 
To  search  a meaning  for  the  song, 
Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you ; 
Nor  finds  a closer  truth  than  this 
All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl’d, 
And  evermore  a costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 

IV. 

For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 
Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 
In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower, 

What  eyes,  like  thine,  have  waken’d 
hopes, 

What  lips,  like  thine,  so  sweetly 
join’d  ? 

Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 
The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind ; 


Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved, 
Yet  sleeps  a dreamless  sleep  to  me ; 
A sleep  by  kisses  undissolved, 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see : 
But  break  it.  In  the  name  of  wife, 
And  in  the  rights  that  name  may 
give, 

Are  clasp’d  the  moral  of  thy  life, 
And  that  for  which  I care  to  live. 


epilogue. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And,  if  you  find  a meaning  there, 

O whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 
“What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me 
fair  ? ” 

What  wonder  I was  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight 
Like  long-tail’d  birds  of  Paradise 
That  float  thro’  Heaven,  and  cannot 
light  ? 

Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 
By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  — 
But  take  it  — earnest  wed  with  sport. 
And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 

My  father  left  a park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 

A garden  too  with  scarce  a tree, 

And  waster  than  a warren : 

Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call. 
It  is  not  bad  but  good  land, 

And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

0 had  I lived  when  song  was  great 
In  days  of  old  Amphion, 

And  ta’en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  ! 

And  had  I lived  when  song  was  great 
And  legs  of  trees  were  limber, 

And  ta’en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber  ! 

’Tis  said  he  had  a tuneful  tongue, 
Such  happy  intonation, 

Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 
He  left  a small  plantation ; 


AMPHION. 


119 


Wherever  in  a lonely  grove 
He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes, 

The  gouty  oak  began  to  move, 

And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr’d  its  bushy  crown, 
And,  as  tradition  teaches, 

Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 
Coquetting  with  young  beeches ; 
And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wreath 
Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming, 

And  from  the  valleys  underneath 
Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  linden  broke  her  ranks  and  rent 
The  woodbine  wreaths  that  bind  her, 
And  down  the  middle,  buzz ! she  "went 
With  all  her  bees  behind  her* 

The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded, 

The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 
By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shod  alder  from  the  wave, 
Came  yews,  a dismal  coterie ; 

Each  pluck’d  his  one  foot  from  the 
grave, 

Poussetting  with  a sloe-tree  : 

Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine, 
The  vine  stream’d  out  to  follow, 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plump’d  the  pine 
Erom  many  a cloudy  hollow. 

And  wasn’t  it  a sight  to  see, 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended, 

Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree, 
The  country-side  descended ; 

And  shepherds  from  the  mountain- 
eaves 

Look’d  down,  half-pleased,  half- 
frighten’d, 

As  dash’d  about  the  drunken  leaves 
The  random  sunshine  lighten’d ! 

Oh,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 

And  wanton  without  measure  ; 

So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then, 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 
Twang  out,  my  fiddle ! shake  the 
twigs ! 


And  make  her  dance  attendance ; 

Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigs, 
And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 

’Tis  vain  ! in  such  a brassy  age 
I could  not  move  a thistle  ; 

The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 
Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle  ; 

Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 
With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 

A jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I hear  ? a sound 
Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading ; 

O Lord!  — ’tis  in  my  neighbor’s  ground, 
The  modern  Muses  reading. 

They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  thro’ 
there, 

And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees 
To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither’d  Misses  ! how  they  prose 
O’er  books  of  travell’d  seamen, 

And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 
Erom  England  to  Van  Diemen. 

They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut, 

And  alleys,  faded  places, 

By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 
And  warm’d  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho’  fed  with  careful  dirt, 
Are  neither  green  nor  sappy ; 

Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt, 
The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 

Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 
That  blows  upon  its  mountain, 

The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 
Beside  its  native  fountain. 


And  I must  work  thro’  months  of  toil 
And  years  of  cultivation, 

Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 
To  grow  my  own  plantation. 

I’ll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I will  not  vex  my  bosom  : 

Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 
A little  garden  blossom. 


120 


ST.  AGNES'  EVE. 


ST.  AGNES’  EVE. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon : 

My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  : 
May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 

The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 
Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 

Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 
That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
Make^Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 
As  are  the  frosty  skies, 

Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 
That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil’d  and 
dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 

As  this  pale  taper’s  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 

So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 
My  spirit  before  Thee ; 

So  in  mine  earthly  house  I am, 

To  that  I hope  to  be. 

Break  up  the  hea  vens,  O Lord ! and  far, 
Thro’  all  yon  starlight  keen, 

Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a glittering  star, 
In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 

All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 
And  strows  her  lights  below, 

And  deepens  on  and  up  ! the  gates 
Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom 
waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 

The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 

A light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of 
men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 

My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 
Because  my  heart  is  pure. 

The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 
The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 


The  splinter’d  spear-shafts  crack  and 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 

They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 
And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 
That  lightly  rain  from  ladies’  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 
On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 

For  them  I battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall  : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow’d  in  crypt  and 
shrine : 

I never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden’s  hand  in  mine. 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 
Me  mightier  transports  move  and 
thrill ; 

So  keep  I fair  thro’  faith  and  prayer 
A virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 
A light  before  me  swims, 

Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 
I hear  a noise  of  hymns : 

Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I ride ; 

I hear  a voice  but  none  are  there ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 
The  tapers  burning  fair. 

Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 
The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 
And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 
I find  a magic  bark  ; 

I leap  on  board  : no  helmsman  steers  : 
I float  till  all  is  dark. 

A gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 
On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 

Ah,  blessed  vision  ! blood  of  God ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 

As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 
And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 
Thro’  dreaming  towns  I go, 


EDWARD  GRAY. 


121 


The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas 
morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 
And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand 
and  mail ; 

But  o’er  the  dark  a glory  spreads, 
And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 

I leave  the  plain,  I climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 
Fly  o’er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A maiden  knight  — to  me  is  given 
Such  hope,  I know  not  fear ; 

I yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 
That  often  meet  me  here. 

I muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 
Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel’s  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I wear, 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and 
eyes, 

Are  touch’d,  are  turn’d  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro’  the  mountain-walls 
A rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 
Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 

“ O just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on  ! the  prize  is  near.” 

So  pass  I hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and 
pale, 

A.ll-arm’d  I ride,  whate’er  betide, 

Until  I find  the  holy  Grail. 


EDWARD  GRAY. 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder 
town 

Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 
“And  have  you  lost  your  heart?  ” 
she  said ; 

“ And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward 
Gray  ? ” 


Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me : 
Bitterly  weeping  1 turn’d  away  : 

“ Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no 
more 

Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward 
Gray. 

“ Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well, 
Against  her  father’s  and  mother’s 
will : 

To-day  I sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 

By  Ellen’s  grave,  on  the  windy  hill 

“ Shy  she  was,  and  I thought  her  cold  ; 
Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over 
the  sea ; 

Fill’d  I was  with  folly  and  spite, 
When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for 
me. 

“ Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I said ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day : 
‘You’re  too  slight  and  fickle,’  I said, 
‘To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward 
Gray.’ 

“ There  I put  my  face  in  the  grass  — ^ 
Whisper’d,  ‘ Listen  to  my  despair  : 

I repent  me  of  all  I did : 

Speak  a little,  Ellen  Adair ! ’ 

“ Then  I took  a pencil,  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I lay, 

‘Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair; 
And  here  the  heart  of  Edward 
Gray ! ’ 

“Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a bird,  from  tree  to 
tree ; 

But  I will  love  no  more,  no  more, 

Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

“ Bitterly  wept  I over  the  stone  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I turn’d  away : 
There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair! 
And  there  the  heart  of  Edwaru 
Gray ! ” 


122 


WILL  WATERPROOF’S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


WILL  WATERPROOF’S 
LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 

MADE  AT  THE  COCK. 

0 plump  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I most  resort, 

How  goes  the  time  ? ’Tis  five  o’clock. 

Go  fetch  a pint  of  port : 

But  let  it  not  he  such  as  that 
You  set  before  chance-comers, 

But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 
On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind, 

And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 
Her  influence  on  the  mind, 

To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes, 
Ere  they  be  half-forgotten ; 

Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times. 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

1 pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 
Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 

And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips, 
These  favor’d  lips  of  mine ; 

Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 
New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom, 
And  barren  commonplaces  break 
In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I pledge  her  silent  at  the  board; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 
Of  all  I felt  and  feel. 

Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 
And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 

And  that  child’s  heart  within  the  man’s 
Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro’  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns, 
By  many  pleasant  ways, 

Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 
The  current  of  my  days  : 

I kiss  the  lips  I once  have  kiss’d; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer ; 

And  softly,  thro’  a vinous  mist, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 
Unboding  critic-pen, 

Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 


Which  vexes  public  men, 

Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 
Eor  that  which  all  deny  them  - — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 
And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho’  all  the  world  forsake, 
Tho’  fortune  clip  my  wings, 

I will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 
Half-views  of  men  and  things. 

Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood  ; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather  ; 

But  for  some  true  result  of  good 
All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes  ; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new ; 

Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and 
shapes, 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 

Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme. 
We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons. 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 
We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid ; 

With  fair  horizons  bound  : 

This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and 
shade 

Comes  out  a perfect  round. 

High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And  set  in  Heaven’s  third  story, 

I look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro’  a kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honor’d  by  the  guest 
Half-mused,  or  reeling  ripe, 

The  pint,  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 
That  ever  came  from  pipe. 

But  tho’  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 

Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  ? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ  ? 

For  since  I came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 
This  wheel  within  my  head, 

Which  bears  a season’d  brain  about, 
Unsubject  to  confusion, 

Tho’  soak’d  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 
Thro’  every  convolution. 


Bitterly  wept  I over  the  stone.” 

Page  121. 


WILL  WA  TERPROOF’S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


123 


For  I am  of  a numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay, 

Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse 
As  who  shall  say  me  nay  : 

Each  month,  a birth-day  coming  on, 
We  drink  defying  trouble, 

Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 
And  then  we  drank  it  double ; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 

Or  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo 
Or  stow’d,  when  classic  Canning  died, 
In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 

Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 
The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer’d  to  my  call, 

She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all : 

She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 
Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 
The  waiter’s  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout, 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 

He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 
That  with  the  napkin  dally ; 

I think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a larger  egg 
Than  modern  poultry  drop, 

Stept  forward  on  a firmer  leg, 

And  cramm’d  a plumper  crop  ; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow’d  lustier  late  and  early, 

Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 
And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A.  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a court  he  saw 
A.  something-pottle-bodied  boy 
That  knuckled  at  the  taw : 

He  stoop’d  and  clutch’d  him,  fair  and 
good, 


Flew  over  roof  and  casement : 

His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 
Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe  and  spire, 
And  follow’d  with  acclaims, 

A sign  to  many  a staring  shire 
Came  crowing  over  Thames. 

Right  down  by  smoky  Paul’s  they  bore, 
Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter, 
One  fix’d  for  ever  at  the  door, 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a legend  blow 
Among  the  chops  and  steaks ! 

’Tis  but  a steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  com- 
mon ; 

As  just  and  mere  a serving-man 
As  any  born  of  woman. 

I ranged  too  high : what  draws  me 
down 

Into  the  common  day  ? 

Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 
Which  I shall  have  to  pay  ? 

For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 
Nor  wholly  comfortable, 

I sit,  my  empty  glass  reversed, 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I take  myself  to  task  ; 

Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 
I leave  an  empty  flask : 

For  I had  hope,  by  something  rare 
To  prove  myself  a poet : 

But,  while  I plan  and  plan,  my  hair 
Is  gray  before  I know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather’d  up  ; 

The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can, 
Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup : 

And  others’  follies  teach  us  not, 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 
Our  own  experience  preaches. 


124 


LADY  CLARE . 


Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone  ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 

But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  ’tis  gone ; 

’Tis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 

’Tis  gone : a thousand  such  have  slipt 
Away  from  my  embraces, 

And  fall’n  into  the  dusty  crypt 
Of  darken’d  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou ! thy  betters  went 
Long  since,  and  came  no  more ; 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 
From  many  a tavern-door, 

With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 
From  misty  men  of  letters ; 

The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits  — 
Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet’s  words  and 
looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow : 

Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 
Had  made  him  talk  for  show ; 

But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm’d, 
He  flash’d  his  random  speeches, 

Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm’d 
His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  for  ever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth ! 

For  should  I prize  thee,  couldst  thou 
last, 

At  half  thy  real  worth  1 
I hold  it  good,  good  things  should 
pass : 

With  time  I will  not  quarrel : 

It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 
That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here, 
To  which  I most  resort, 

I too  must  part : I hold  thee  dear 
For  this  good  pint  of  port. 

For  this,  thou  slialt  from  all  things 
suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter; 
And  wheresoe’er  thou  move,  good  luck 
Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 
The  sphere  thy  fate  allots : 

Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 


Go  down  among  the  pots  : 

Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 
In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 

Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 
Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our 
skins, 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot; 

Thy  care  is,  under  polish’d  tins. 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot ; 

To  come  and  go,  and  come  again. 
Returning  like  the  pewit, 

And  watch’d  by  silent  gentlemen, 
That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 
The  thick-set  hazel  dies ; 

Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 
The  corners  of  thine  eyes  : 

Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 
Our  changeful  equinoxes, 

Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late 
guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt 
cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 

And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 
Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more  ; 

No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of 
Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven: 
But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  under- 
neath, 

A pint-pot  neatly  graven. 


LADY  CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 

And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 
Lord  Ronald  brought  a lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn : 
Lovers  long-betroth’d  were  they  : 
They  too  will  wed  the  morrow  morn: 
God’s  blessing  on  the  day ! 


The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay.” 

Page  125. 


LADY  CLARE. 


125 


“ He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,”  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 
Said,  “ Who  was  this  that  went  from 
thee  ? ” 

“ It  was  my  cousin,”  said  Lady  Clare, 
“To-morrow  he  weds  with  me.” 

“ O God  be  thank’d  ! ” said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“ That  all  comes  round  so  just  and 
fair  : 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 

“ Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse, 
my  nurse  ? ” 

Said  Lady  Clare,  “ that  ye  speak  so 
wild  ? ” 

“ As  God’s  above,”  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“ I speak  the  truth . vou  are  my 
child. 


“ The  old  Earl’s  daughter  died  at  my 
breast  ; 

I speak  the  truth,  as  I live  by  bread ! 
I buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 
And  put  my  child  in  her  stead.” 

“Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O mother,”  she  said,  “if  this  be  true, 
To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due.” 

“ Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“ But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord' 
Ronald’s, 

When  you  are  man  and  wife.” 

“ If  I’m  a beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“ I will  speak  out,  for  I dare  not  lie. 
Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by.” 


“Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

“ But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can.” 

She  said,  “ Not  so  : but  1 will  know 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man.” 

“Nay  now,  what  faith?”  said  Alice 
the  nurse, 

“ The  man  will  cleave  unto  his 
right.” 

“And  he  shall  have  it,”  the  lady 
replied, 

“ Tho’  I should  die  to-night.” 

“Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother 
dear ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I sinn’d  for  thee.” 

“ O mother,  mother,  mother,”  she  said- 
“ So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

“ Yet  here’s  a kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I go.” 

She  clad  herself  in  a russet  gown, 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by 
down, 

With  a single  rose  in  her  air. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 

Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden’s  hand, 
And  follow’d  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his 
tower : 

“O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your 
worth ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a village 
maid, 

That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  1 " 

“ If  I come  drest  like  a village  maid, 

I am  but  as  my  fortunes  are ; 

I am  a beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“ And  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 


126 


THE  CAPTAIN 


' 1 Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ro- 
nald, 

“ For  I am  yours  in  word  and  in 
deed. 

Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ronald, 
“ Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read.” 

0 and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look’d  into  Lord  Ronald’s  eyes, 
And  told  him  all  her  nurse’s  tale. 

He  laugh’d  a laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 
He  turn’d  and  kiss’d  her  where  she 
stood : 

If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,”  said  he,  “ the  next  in 
blood  — 

“ If  you  are  not  the  heiress  horn, 

And  I,”  said  he,  “ the  lawful  heir, 
We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare.” 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND  OF  THE  NAVY. 

He  that  only  rules  by  terror 
Doeth  grievous  wrong. 

Deep  as  Hell  I count  his  error. 

Let  him  hear  my  song. 

Brave  the  Captain  was  : the  seamen 
Made  a gallant  crew, 

Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 
Sailors  bold  and  true. 

But  they  hated  his  oppression, 

Stern  he  was  and  rash ; 

So  for  every  light  transgression 
Doom’d  them  to  the  lash. 

Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 
Seem’d  the  Captain’s  mood. 

Secret  wrath  like  smother’d  fuel 
Burnt  in  each  mail’s  blood. 

Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 
Hoped  to  make  the  name 

Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 
Wheresoe’er  he  came. 

So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands, 
Many  a harbor-mouth, 

Sailing  under  palmy  highlands 
Far  within  the  South. 

On  a day  when  they  were  going 


O’er  the  lone  expanse, 

In  the  north,  her  canvas  flowing, 

Rose  a ship  of  France. 

Then  the  Captain’s  color  heighten’d, 
Joyful  came  his  speech: 

But  a cloudy  gladness  lighten’d 
In  the  eyes  of  each. 

“ Chase,”  he  said : the  ship  flew  for. 
ward, 

And  the  wind  did  blow ; 

Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norward, 
Till  she  near’d  the  foe. 

Then  they  look’d  at  him  they  hated, 
Had  what -they  desired: 

Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited  — 
Not  a gun  was  fired. 

But  they  heard  the  foeman’s  thunder 
Roaring  out  their  doom  ; 

All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 
Crashing  went  the  boom, 

Spars  were  splinter’d,  decks  were  shat- 
ter’d, 

Bullets  fell  like  rain  ; 

Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter’d 
Blood  and  brains  of  men. 

Spars  were  splinter’d ; decks  were 
broken  : 

Every  mother’s  son  — 

Down  they  dropt — no  word  was 
spoken  — 

Each  beside  his  gun. 

On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying, 
Were  their  faces  grim. 

In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying, 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 

Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 
For  his  noble  name, 

With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 
Sold  him  unto  shame. 

Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  con 
founded, 

Pale  he  turn’d  and  red, 

Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 
Falling  on  the  dead. 

Dismal  error ! fearful  slaughter ! 

Years  have  wander’d  by, 

Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 
Crew  and  Captain  lie ; 

There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 
O’er  them  mouldering, 

And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 
With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH 


127 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

“ If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 
Maiden,  I have  watch’d  thee  daily, 
And  I think  thou  lov’st  me  well.” 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

“ There  is  none  I love  like  thee.” 
He  is  but  a landscape-painter, 

And  a village  maiden  she. 

He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Presses  his  without  reproof  : 

Leads  her  to  the  village  altar, 

And  they  leave  her  father’s  roof. 

“ I can  make  no  marriage  present : 
Little  can  I give  my  wife. 

Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 
And  I love  thee  more  than  life.” 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 
See  the  lordly  castles  stand  : 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 
Made  a murmur  in  the  land. 

From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 
Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 

“ Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 
Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell.” 
So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 

Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 
Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers  ; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 
Parks  and  order’d  gardens  great, 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

BuiL  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 

All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer  : 
Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 
Where  they  twain  will  spend  their 
days. 

O but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

He  shall  have  a cheerful  home  ; 

She  will  order  all  things  duly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately, 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns ; 
Sees  a mansion  more  majestic 
Than  all  those  she  saw  before  : 
Many  a gallant  gay  domestic 
Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 

And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 
When  they  answer  to  his  call, 


While  he  treads  with  footsteps  firmer 
Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 

And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly. 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

“ All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine.” 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 
Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free, 
Not  a lord  in  all  the  county 
Is  so  great  a lord  as  he. 

All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin  : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes, 
And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 
Pale  again  as  death  did  prove : 

But  he  clasp’d  her  like  a lover, 

And  he  cheer’d  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 
Tho’  at  times  her  spirit  sank  : 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman’s  meek- 
ness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 

And  a gentle  consort  made  he, 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a noble  lady, 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a trouble  weigh’d  upon  her, 

And  perplex’d  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burthen  of  an  honor 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 

Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

And  she  murmur’d,  “Oh,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape- 
painter, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me ! ” 
So  she  droop’d  and  droop’d  before  him, 
Fading  slowly  from  his  side  : 

Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 
Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 
Walking  up  and  pacing  down, 
Deeply  mourn’d  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 
Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her, 

And  he  look’d  at  her  and  said, 

“ Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 
That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading, 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


128 


THE  VOYAGE. 


THE  VOYAGE. 


We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 
That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth ; 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 
As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South  : 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 
On  open  main  or  winding  shore ! 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 
And  we  might  sail  for  evermore. 

ii. 

Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the 
brow, 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady’s-head  upon  the  prow 
Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer’d 
the  gale. 

The  broad  seas  swell’d  to  meet  the 
keel, 

And  swept  behind  ; so  quick  the  run, 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel, 
We  seem’d  to  sail  into  the  Sun ! 

hi. 

How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire, 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar’d  light! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 
Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro’  the  slumber  of  the  globe 
Again  we  dash’d  into  the  dawn ! 

IV. 

New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 
Of  waters  lighten’d  into  view  ; 

They  climb’d  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 
Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean’s  heaving  field, 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 
Of  her  own  halo’s  dusky  shield ; 

v. 

The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen, 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 
And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 


Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove, 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker 
sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 

VI. 

By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 
Gloom’d  the  low  coast  and  quivering 
brine 

With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 
Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine  ; 

By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 
Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 
Glow’d  for  a moment  as  we  past. 

VII. 

O hundred  shores  of  happy  climes, 
How  swiftly  stream’d  ye  by  the 
bark! 

At  times  the  whole  sea  burn’d,  at  times 
With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark ; 
At  times  a carven  craft  would  shoot 
From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bowers, 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and 
fruit, 

But  we  nor  paused  for  fruit  nor 
flowers. 

VIII. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and 
night, 

And  still  we  follow’d  where  she  led, 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 

Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 

And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line  ; 

But  each  man  murmur’d,  “O  my 
Queen, 

I follow  till  I make  thee  mine.” 

IX. 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam’d 
Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air, 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem’d 
Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge 
fair, 

Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 
Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown’d 
the  sea, 

And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed, 
She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 


SIR  LA  UN CE  LOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINEVERE. 


129 


And  only  one  among  us  — him 

We  pleased  not  — he  was  seldom 
pleased : 

He  saw  not  far : his  eyes  were  dim  : 
But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
“ A ship  of  fools,”  he  shriek’d  in  spite, 
“A  ship  of  fools,”  he  sneer’d  and 
wept. 

And  overboard  one  stormy  night 
He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

XI. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl’d, 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn ; 
We  lov’d  the  glories  of  the  world, 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn. 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and 
cease, 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove 
the  sail 

Across  the  whirlwind’s  heart  of  peace, 
And  to  and  thro’  the  counter  gale  1 

XII. 

Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 

For  still  we  follow’d  where  she  led  : 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame, 
And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead, 
But,  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound, 
We  follow  that  which  flies  before  : 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 
And  we  may  sail  for  evermore. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND 
QUEEN  GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

LiKe  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven 
again 

The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh’d  between, 
And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 

The  topmost  elm-tree  gather’d  green 
From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 


Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled 
strong : 

Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel’d 
along, 

Hush’d  all  the  groves  from  fear  of 
wrong : 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
Jn  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro’  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem’d  a part  of  joyous 
Spring  : 

A gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before ; 

A light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 
Closed  in  a golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 
Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set . 
And  fleeter  now  she  skimm’d  the 
plains 

Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 

When  all  the  glimmering  moorland 
rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro’  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play’d, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid : 
She  look’d  so  lovely,  as  she  sway’d 
The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 

A man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 

And  all  his  wordly  worth  for  this, 

To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


A FAREWELL. 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 
Thy  tribute  wave  deliver : 

No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
* For  ever  and  for  ever. 


130 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 


Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A rivulet  then  a river  : 

No  where  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid ; 
She  was  more  fair  than  words  can 
say : 

Bare-footed  came  the  beggar  maid 
Before  the  king  Cophetua. 

In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 
To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way ; 

“ It  is  no  wonder,”  said  the  lords, 

“ She  is  more  beautiful  than  day.” 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 
She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen  :• 

One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 
One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome 
mien. 

So  sweet  a face,  such  angel  grace, 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been  : 

Cophetua  sware  a royal  oath : 

“ This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my 
queen ! ” 


THE  EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked 
hands ; 

Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring’d  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a thunderbolt  he  falls.  # 


Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow : 
From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 

O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go ; 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 
That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 
And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


Come  not,  when  I am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my 
grave, 

To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 
And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou 
wouldst  not  save. 

There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the 
plover  cry ; 

But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy 
crime 

I care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest : 

Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I am  sick 
of  Time, 

And  I desire  to  rest. 

Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me 
where  I lie : 

Go  by,  go  by. 


THE  LETTERS. 

i. 

Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A black  yew  gloom’d  the  stagnant 
air, 

I peer’d  athwart  the  chancel  pane 
And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 

A clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A band  of  pain  across  my  brow ; 
“Cold  altar,  Heaven  and  earth  shall 
meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow.” 
ii. 

I turn’d  and  humm’d  a bitter  song 
That  mock’d  the  wholesome  human 
heart, 


In  robe  and  crown  the  King  stept  down 
To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way.” 

Page  130. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


131 


And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 
We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 
Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry  ; 
She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly 
moved  ; 

I saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 
She  wore  the  colors  I approved. 
hi. 

She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a sigh  she  turn’d  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  com- 
prest, 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 
My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could 
please ; 

As  looks  a father  on  the  things 
Of  his  dead  son'  I look’d  on  these. 

IV. 

She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said  ; 

I raged  against  the  public  liar ; 

She  talk’d  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 
But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  lire. 
“ No  more  of  love  ; your  sex  is  known : 
I never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I trust  the  man  alone, 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed, 
v. 

“ Thro’  slander,  meanest  spawn  of 
Hell  — 

And  women’s  slander  is  the  worst, 
And  you,  whom  once  I lov’d  so  well, 
Thro’  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst.” 
I spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 
I shook  her  breast  with  vague 
alarms  — 

Like  torrents  from  a mountain  source 
We  rush’d  into  each  other’s  arms. 

VI. 

W e parted : sweetly  gleam’d  the  stars, 
And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue, 
Low  breezes  fann’d  the  belfry  bars, 
As  homeward  by  the  church  I drew. 
The  very  graves  appear’d  to  smile, 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow’d 
swells ; 

“ Dark  porch,”  I said,  “ and  silent 
aisle, 

There  comes  a sound  of  marriage 
bells. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


I had  a vision  when  the  night  was  late  : 

A youth  came  riding  toward  a palace- 
gate. 

He  rode  a horse  with  wings,  that  would 
have  flown, 

But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him 
down. 

And  from  the  palace  came  a child  of 
sin, 

And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led 
him  in, 

Where  sat  a company  with  heated 
eyes, 

Expecting  when  a fountain  should 
arise : 

A sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and 
lips  — 

As  when  the  sun,  a crescent  of  eclipse, 

Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles 
and  capes  — 

Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid 
shapes, 

By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 
and  piles  of  grapes. 

ii. 

Then  methought  I heard  a mellow 
sound, 

Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower 
ground ; 

Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assem- 
bled 

Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trem- 
bled, 

Wov’n  in  circles : they  that  heard  it 
sigh’d, 

Panted  hand-in-hand  with  faces  pale, 

Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones 
replied ; 

Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering 
wide 

Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 

Then  the  music  touch’d  the  gates  and 
died , 

Rose  again  from  where  it  seem’d  to 
fail, 

Storm’d  in  orbs  of  song,  a growing 
gale  ; 


132 


TH A VISION  OF  SIN 


Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 
waited, 

As  ’twere  a hundred-throated  nightin- 
gale, 

The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb’d 
and  palpitated; 

Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid 
mazes, 

Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round : 
Then  they  started  from  their  places, 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue, 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view, 

Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew, 

Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces, 

Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 

Dash’d  together  in  blinding  dew : 

Till,  kill’d  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter’d  headlong  from  the  sky. 

hi. 

And  then  I look’d  up  toward  a moun- 
„tain-tract, 

That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 
lawn : 

I saw  that  every  morning,  far  with- 
drawn 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 
God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn, 

Unheeded  : and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 
From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly 
drawing  near, 

A vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 
Came  floating  on  for  many  a month 
and  year, 

Unheeded : and  I thought  I would 
have  spoken, 

And  warn’d  that  madman  ere  it  grew 
too  late : 

But,  as  in  dreams,  I could  not.  Mine 
was  broken, 

When  that  cold  vapor  touch’d  the 
palace  gate, 

And  link’d  again.  I saw  within  my 
head 


A gray  and  gap-tooth’d  man  as  lean 
as  death, 

Who  slowly  rode  across  a wither’d 
heath, 

And  lighted  at  a ruin’d  inn,  and  said : 


IV. 

“ Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin! 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way ; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 
Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

“ Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed ; 
What ! the  flower  of  life  is  past: 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

“ Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour, 

At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  ! 

Let  us  have  a quiet  hour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

“ I am  old,  but  let  me  drink ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine ; 

I remember,  when  I think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

“ Wine  is  good  for  shrivell’d  lips, 
When  a blanket  wraps  the  day, 
When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 

And  the  leaf  is  stamp’d  in  clay. 

“ Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame. 
Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee  : 
What  care  I for  any  name  ? 

What  for  order  or  degree  ? 

“Let  me  screw  thee  up  a peg  : 

Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine  : 
Callest  thou  that  thing  a leg  ? 

Which  is  thinnest  ? thine  or  mine  ? 

“ Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works  : 
Thou  hast  been  a sinner  too  : 
Ruin’d  trunks  on  wither’d  forks, 
Empty  scarecrows,  I and  you ! 

“ Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 

Have  a rouse  before  the  morn : 
Every  moment  dies  a man, 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


133 


" We  are  men  of  ruin  d blood ; 
Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 

Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

“ Name  and  fame ! to  fly  sublime 
Thro’  the  courts,  the  camps,  the 
schools, 

Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  by  the  hands  of  fools. 

“ Friendship ! — to  be  two  in  one  — 
Let  the  canting  liar  pack ! 

Well  I know,  when  I am  gone, 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back. 

“ Virtue  ! — to  be  good  and  just  — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well, 

Is  a clot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix’d  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

“ 0 ! we  two  as  well  can  look 
Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 

As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor’s  wife. 

“ Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can : 

Have  a rouse  before  the  morn : 

Every  moment  dies  a man, 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 

“ Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave : 
They  are  fill’d  with  idle  spleen ; 

Rising,  falling,  like  a wave, 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean 

“ He  that  roars  for  liberty 

Faster  binds  a tyrant’s  power; 

And  the  tyrant’s  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

M Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup  : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

A.re  but  dust  that  rises  up. 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

“ Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread; 

In  her  right  a civic  wreath, 

In  her  left  a human  head. 

“ No,  I love  not  what  is  new ; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house : 


And  I think  we  know  the  hue 
Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

“ Let  her  go  ! her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs, 
Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

“ Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 
Visions  of  a perfect  State : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

“ Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

“Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue; 

Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free  ; 

What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 
Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

“ Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 
What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 

And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

“ Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love  — 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance  ; 
Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 

And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

“ Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

“ Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads : 
Welcome,  fellow-citizens, 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  ! 

“You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that1 
Every  face,  however  full, 

Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell’d  on  a skull. 

“ Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex ! 

Tread  a measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam  — if  I know  your  sex, 

1 From  the  fashion  of  your  bones 


134 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


“ No,  I cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  — nor  yet  your  lip  : 

All  the  more  do  I admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

“ Lo  ! God’s  likeness  — the  ground- 
plan — 

Neither  modell’d,  glazed,  nor 
framed : 

Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 
Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed ! 

4‘  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a little  breath ! 
Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  ! 

“ Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near : 

What ! I am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a bitter  jest  is  dear. 

“ Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl’d ; 
Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 
And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

“ Fill  the  cup  and  fill  the  can  : 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  ! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man: 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn.” 


v. 

The  voice  grew  faint:  there  came  a 
further  change : 

Once  more  uprosethe mystic  mountain- 
range  : 

Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced 
with  worms, 

And  slowly  quickening  into  lower 
forms ; 

By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum 
of  dross, 

Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch’d 
with  moss. 

Then  some  one  spake  : “ Behold ! it 
was  a crime 

Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore 
with  time.” 

Another  said  : “ The  crime  of  sense 
became 


The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal 
blame.” 

And  one  : “ He  had  not  wholly 

quench’d  his  power; 

A little  grain  of  conscience  made  him 
sour.” 

At  last  I heard  a voice  upon  the  slope 

Cry  to  the  summit,  “Is  there  any 
hope  *?  ” 

To  which  an  answer  peal’d  from  that 
high  land, 

But  in  a tongue  no  man  could  under- 
stand ; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of 
dawn. 


TO , 

AFTER  READING  A LIFE  AND  LETTERS. 

“ Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones.” 

Shakespeare's  Epitaph. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet’s  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now, 
And  gain’d  a laurel  for  your  brow 
Of  sounder  leaf  than  I can  claim ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro’  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 
A deedful  life,  a silent  voice  : 

And  you  have  miss’d  the  irreverent 
doom 

Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet’s  crown : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 
Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die, 

Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 

But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 
Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry  : 

“Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not 
show : 

Break  lock  and  seal : betray  the 
trust : 

Keep  nothing  sacred : tis  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know.’1 


“ Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0 Sea!  ” 

Page  135. 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN  GREECE. 


135 


Ah  shameless  ! for  he  did  but  sing 
A song  that  pleased  us  from  its 
worth  ; 

No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon’d  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best : 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My  Shakespeare’s  curse  on  clown 
and  knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 


Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier, 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 
And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 


Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory’s  temple-gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 
To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd ! 


TO  E.  L,,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN 
GREECE. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass, 

The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 


Tomolirit,  Athos,  all  things  fair, 
With  such  a pencil,  such  a pen, 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 
I read  and  felt  that  I was  there : 


And  trust  me  while  I turn’d  the  page, 
And  track’d  you  still  on  classic 
ground, 

I grew  in  gladness  till  I found 
My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour’d 

And  glisten’d  — here  and  there  alone 
The  broad-limb’d  Gods  at  random 
thrown 

By  fountain-urns ; — and  Naiads  oar’d 


A glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars  ; on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell ; 
And  many  a slope  was  rich  in  bloom 


From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks, 
And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0 Sea ! 
And  I would  that  my  tongue  could 
utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


O well  for  the  fisherman’s  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at 
play ! 

0 well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O for  the  touch  of  a vanish’d 
hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is 
still ! 


Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a day  that  is 
dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  POET’S  SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 
He  pass’d  by  the  town  and  out  of 
the  street, 

A light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of 
the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the 
wheat, 

And  he  sat  him  down  in  a lonely  place, 


136 


THE  BROOK'. 


And  chanted  a melody  loud  and 
sweet, 

That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her 
cloud, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the 
bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a spray, 

The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down 
on  his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the 
prey, 

And  the  nightingale  thought,  “ I have 
sung  many  songs, 

But  never  a one  so  gay, 

For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away.” 


THE  BROOK. 

Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted ; I to 
the  East 

And  he  for  Italy  — too  late  — too  late  : 

One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the 
world  despise ; 

For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip 
and  share, 

And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent 
for  cent ; 

Nor  could  he  understand  how  money 
breeds, 

Thought  it  a dead  thing ; yet  himself 
could  make 

The  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing 
that  is. 

O had  he  lived ! In  our  schoolbooks 
we  say, 

Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above 
the  crowd, 

They  flourish’d  then  or  then ; but  life 
in  him 

Could  scarce  be  said  to  flourish,  only 
touch’d 

On  such  a time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 

When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a mist 
of  green, 

And  nothing  perfect : yet  the  brook 
he  loved, 

For  which,  in  branding  summers  of 
Bengal, 


Or  ev’n  the  sweet  lialf-English  Neil- 
gherry  air 

I panted,  seems,  as  I re-listen  to  it, 

Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the 
boy, 

Tome  that  loved  him ; for  “ O brook,” 
he  says, 

“0  babbling  brook,”  says  Edmund  in 
his  rhyme, 

“ Whence  come  you  ? ” and  the  brook, 
why  not 1 replies. 

I come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I make  a sudden  sally, 

And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a little  town, 

And  half  a> hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip’s  farm  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
Bat  I go  on  for  ever. 

“ Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite 
v/orn  out, 

Travelling  to  Naples.  There  is  Darn- 
ley  bridge, 

It  has  more  ivy ; there  the  river ; and 
there 

Stands  Philip’s  farm  where  brook  and 
river  meet. 

I chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a curve  my  banks  I fret 
By  many  a field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I chatter,  chatter,  as  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever. 

“But  Philip  chatter’d  more  than 
brook  or  bird ; 

Old  Philip ; all  about  the  fields  you 
caught 

His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the 
dry 

High-elbow’d  grigs  that  leap  in  sum- 
mer grass. 


THE  BROOK . 


137 


I wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a foamy  flake 
Upon  me,  as  I travel 
With  many  a silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever. 

“ 0 darling  Katie  Willows,  his  one 
child ! 

A maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most 
meek ; 

A daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not 
coarse ; 

Straight,  but  as  lissome  as  a hazel 
wand ; 

Her  eyes  a bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 

In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when 
the  shell 

Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit 
within. 

“ Sweet  Katie,  once  I did  her  a good 
turn, 

Her  and  her  far-off  cousin  and  be- 
trothed, 

James  Willows,  of  one  name  and 
heart  with  her. 

For  here  I came,  twenty  years  back  — 
the  week 

Before  I parted  with  poor  Edmund , 
crost 

By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in 
ruins  then, 

Still  makes  a hoary  eyebrow  for  the 
gleam 

Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry  — 
crost, 

Whistling  a random  bar  of  Bonny 
Doon, 

And  push’d  at  Philip’s  garden-gate. 
The  gate, 

Half-parted  from  a weak  and  scolding 
hinge, 

Stuck ; and  he  clamor’d  from  a case- 
ment, ‘ Run  ’ 

To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks 
below, 


‘ Run,  Katie  ! ’ Katie  never  ran  : she. 
moved 

To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine 
bowers, 

A little  flutter’d,  with  her  eyelids 
down, 

Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a 
boon. 

“What  was  it1?  less  of  sentiment 
than  sense 

Had  Katie ; not  illiterate ; nor  of  those 

Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of  Active 
tears, 

And  nursed  by  mealy-mouth’d  philan- 
thropies, 

Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate 
the  Deed. 


“ She  told  me.  She  and  James  had 
quarrell’d.  Why  ? 

What  cause  of  quarrel  ? None,  she 
said,  no  cause  ; 

James  had  no  cause : but  when  I prest 
the  cause, 

I learnt  that  James  had  flickering 
jealousies 

Which  anger’d  her.  Who  anger’d 
James  ? I said. 

But  Katie  snatch’d  her  eyes  at  once 
from  mine, 

And  sketching  with  her  slender  pointed 
foot 

Some  figure  like  a wizard  pentagram 

On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 

Unclaim’d,  in  flushing  silence,  till  I 
ask’d 

If  James  were  coming.  ‘Coming 
every  day,’ 

She  answer’d,  ‘ ever  longing  to  explain, 

But  evermore  her  father  came  across 

With  some  long-winded  tale,  and  broke 
him  short ; 

And  James  departed  vext  with  him 
and  her.’ 

How  could  I help  her?  ‘Would  I — 
was  it  wrong  1 ’ 

(Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary 
grace 

Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere 
she  spoke) 


138 


THE  BROOK. 


‘ 0 would  I take  her  father  for  one 
hour, 

For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to 
me !’ 

And  even  while  she  spoke,  I saw  where 
James 

Made  toward  us,  like  a wader  in  the 
surf, 

Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in 
meadow-sweet. 

“ O Katie,  what  I suffer’d  for  your 
sake ! 

For  in  I went,  and  call’d  old  Philip  out 

To  show  the  farm;  full  willingly  he 
rose : 

He  led  me  thro’  the  short  sweet- 
smelling lanes 

Of  his  wheat-suburb,  babbling  as  he 
went. 

He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his 
machines ; 

He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his 
hogs,  his  dogs ; 

He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his 
guinea-hens ; 

His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their 
roofs 

Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own 
deserts : 

Then  from  the  plaintive  mother’s  teat 
he  took 

Her  blind  and  shuddering  puppies, 
naming  each, 

And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for 
whom  they  were : 

Then  crost  the  common  into  Darnley 
chase 

To  show  Sir  Arthur’s  deer.  In  copse 
and  fern 

Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail. 

Then,  seated  on  a serpent-rooted  beech, 

He  pointed  out  a pasturing  colt,  and 
said  : 

‘ That  was  the  four-year-old  I sold  the 
Squire.’ 

And  there  he  told  a long  long-winded 
tale 

Of  how  the  Squire  had  seen  the  colt 
at  grass, 

And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter 
wish’d, 


And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the 
farm 

To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price 
he  ask’d, 

And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  he  was 
mad, 

But  he  stood  firm ; and  so  the  matter 
hung.; 

He  gave  them  line : and  five  days  after 
that 

He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 

Who  then  and  there  had  offer’d  some- 
thing more, 

But  he  stood  firm ; and  so  the  matter 
hung; 

He  knew  the  man ; the  colt  would  fetch 
its  price ; 

He  gave  them  line : and  how  by  chance 
at  last 

(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot, 

The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 

He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the 
farm, 

And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew 
him  in, 

And  there  he  mellow’d  all  his  heart 
with  ale, 

Until  they  closed  a bargain,  hand  in 
hand. 

“ Then,  while  I breathed  in  sight  of 
haven,  he, 

Poor  fellow,  could  he  help  it  'i  recom. 
menced, 

And  ran  thro’  all  the  coltish  chronicle, 

Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy, 
Tallyho, 

Reform,  White  Rose,  Bellerophon,  the 
Jilt, 

Arbaces,  and  Phenomenon,  and  the 
rest, 

Till,  not  to  die  a listener,  I arose, 

And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ; and 
so 

We  turn’d  our  foreheads  from  the  fall- 
ing sun, 

And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice 
as  long 

As  when  they  follow’d  us  from  Philip’s 
door, 

Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet 
content 


“ And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a valley.” 

Page  136. 


THE  BROOK. 


139 


Re-risen  in  Katie’s  eyes,  and  all  tilings 
well. 

I steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I slide  by  hazel  covers ; 

I move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I slip,  I slide,  I gloom,  I glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

I make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses; 

I linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever. 

Yes,  men  may  come  and  go ; and  these 
are  gone, 

All  gone.  My  dearest  brother,  Ed- 
mund, sleeps, 

Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and 
rustic  spire, 

But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 

Of  Brunelleschi ; sleeps  in  peace ; and 
he, 

Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of 
words 

Remains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb  : 

I scraped  the  lichen  from  it ; Katie 
walks 

By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 

Far  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other 
stars, 

And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.  All 
are  gone.” 

So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  seated  on  a 
stile 

In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his 
mind 

Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o’er 
the  brook 

A tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 

Mused,  and  was  mute.  On  a sudden 
a low  breath 

Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in  the 
hedge 


The  fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony 
rings ; 

And  he  look’d  up.  There  stood  a 
maiden  near, 

Waiting  to  pass.  In  much  amaze  he 
stared 

On  eyes  a bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 

In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when 
the  shell 

Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit 
within : 

Then,  wondering,  ask’d  her  “ Are  you 
from  the  farm  7 ” 

“ Yes,”  answer’d  she.  “ Pray  stay  a 
little : pardon  me  ; 

What  do  they  call  you  7 ” “ Katie.” 
“ That  were  strange. 

What  surname  7 ” “ Willows.”  “No ! ” 
“ That  is  my  name.” 

“ Indeed ! ” and  here  he  look’d  so  self- 
perplext, 

That  Katie  laugh’d,  and  laughing 
blush’d,  till  he 

Laugh’d  also,  but  as  one  before  he 
wakes, 

Who  feels  a glimmering  strangeness 
in  his  dream. 

Then  looking  at  her ; “ Too  happy, 
fresh  and  fair, 

Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world’s 
best  bloom, 

To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your 
name 

About  these  meadows,  twenty  years 
ago.” 

“ Have  you  not  heard  7 ” said  Katie, 
“ we  came  back. 

We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  be- 
fore. 

Am  I so  like  her  7 so  they  said  on 
board. 

Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English 
days, 

My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the 
days 

That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come 
with  me. 

My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest- 
field  ; 

But  she  — you  will  be  welcome  — 0, 
come  in ! ” 


140 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


AYLMER’S  FIELD. 

1793. 

Dust  are  our  frames ; and,  gilded  dust, 
our  pride 

Looks  only  for  a moment  whole  and 
sound ; 

Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 

Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  orna- 
ments, 

Which  at  a touch  of  light,  an  air  of 
heaven, 

Slipt  into  ashes,  and  was  found  no 
more. 

Here  is  a story  which  in  rougher 
shape 

Came  from  a grizzled  cripple,  whom 
I saw 

Sunning  himself  in  a waste  field 
alone  — 

Old,  and  a mine  of  memories — who 
had  served, 

Long  since,  a bygone  Rector  of  the 
place, 

And  been  himself  a part  of  what  he 
told. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer,  that  al- 
mighty man, 

The  county  God  — in  whose  capacious 
hall. 

Hung  with  a hundred  shields,  the 
family  tree 

Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a prostrate 
king  — 

Whose  blazing,  wyvern  weathercock’d 
the  spire, 

Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing’d  his 
entry-gates 

And  swang  besides  on  many  a windy 
sign  — 

Whose  eyes  from  under  a pyramidal 
head 

Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save 
his  own  — 

What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than 
her, 

His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he 
loved 

As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully? 

But  “ he  that  marries  her  marries  her 
name  ” 


This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself 
and  wife, 

His  wife  a faded  beauty  of  the 
Baths, 

Insipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a card ; 

Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly 
more 

Than  his  own  shadow  in  a sickly  sun. 

A land  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled 
corn, 

Little  about  it  stirring  save  a brook  ! 

A sleepy  land,  where  under  the  same 
wheel 

The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year 
by  year ; 

Where  almost  all  the  village  had  one 
name ; 

Where  Aylmer  followed  Aylmer  at 
the  Hall 

And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 

Thrice  over ; so  that  Rectory  and 
Hall, 

Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy, 

Were  open  to  each  other;  tho’  to 
dream 

That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well 
had  made 

The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle 
up 

With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard 
his  priest 

Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of 
men 

Daughters  of  God ; so  sleepy  was  the 
land. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will’d 
it  so, 

Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range 
of  roofs, 

Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree? 

There  was  an  Aylmer-Averill  mar- 
riage once. 

When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than 
itself, 

And  York’s  white  rose  as  red  as  Lan 
caster’s, 

With  wounded  peace  which  each  had 
prick’d  to  death. 

“Not  proven  ” Averill  said,  or  laugh- 
ingly 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


141 


“ Some  other  race  of  Averills” — prov’n 
or  no, 

What  cared  he  ? what,  if  other  or  the 
same  1 

He  loan’d  not  on  his  fathers  but  him- 
self. 

But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 
With  Averill,  and  a year  or  two  before 
Call’d  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call’d  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neigh- 
borhood, 

Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith, 
claim 

A distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing 
him. 

Sanguine  he  was : a but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut- 
bloom 

Flamed  in  his  cheek  ; and  eager  eyes, 
that  still 

Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful, 
beam’d, 

Beneath  a manelike  mass  of  rolling 
gold, 

Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they 
dwelt  on  hers, 

Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect 
else, 

But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 
Shone  like  a mystic  star  between  the 
less 

And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro, 
We  know  not  wherefore  ; bounteously 
made, 

And  yet  so  finely,  that  a troublous 
touch 

Thinn’d,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in 
a day, 

A joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the 
first. 

Leolin’s  first  nurse  was,  five  years 
after,  hers  : 

So  much  the  boy  foreran  : but  when 
his  date 

Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  play- 
mates, he 

(Since  Averill  was  a decade  and  a half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  under- 
ground) 


Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite, 
and  roll’d 

His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her 
dipt 

Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the 
prone  swing, 

Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy-chain,  ar- 
ranged 

Her  garden,  sow’d  her  name  and  kept 
it  green 

In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 
Show’d  her  the  fairy  footings  on  the 
grass, 

The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms, 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy 
pines, 

Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look’d  a flight  of  fairy  arrows 
aim’d 

All  at  one  mark,  all  hitting : make- 
believes 

Eor  Edith  and  himself : or  else  he 
forged, 

But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon, 
wreck, 

Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and 
true  love 

Crown’d  after  trial ; sketches  rude  and 
faint, 

But  where  a passion  yet  unborn  per- 
haps 

Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 

And  thus  together,  save  for  college- 
times 

Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang, 

Or  Heaven  in  lavish  bounty  moulded, 
grew. 

And  more  and  more,  the  maiden 
woman-grown, 

He  wasted  hours  with  Averill ; there, 
when  first 

The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 
Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer 
spears 

That  soon  should  wear  the  garland ; 
there  again 

When  burr  and  bine  were  gather’d; 
lastly  there 


142 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


At  Christinas ; ever  welcome  at  the 
Hall, 

On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide 
of  youth 

Broke  with  a phosphorescence  charm- 
ing even 

My  lady  ; and  the  Baronet  yet  had 
laid 

No  bar  between  them  : dull  and  self- 
involved, 

Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his 
height 

With  half-allowing  smiles  for  all  the 
world, 

And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main  — 
his  pride 

Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his 
ring  — 

He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 

Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin’s  walk- 
ing with  her 

Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland’s,  when 
they  ran 

To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he 
rose 

Two  footed  at  the  limit  of  his  chain, 

Roaring  to  make  a third  : and  how 
should  Love, 

Whom  the  cross-lightnings  of  four 
chance-met  eyes 

Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing, 
follow 

Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 

Seldom,  but  when  he  does,  Master  of 
all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing 
that  they  loved, 

Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a 
bar 

Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken 
ring 

Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 

Wander’d  at  will,  and  oft  accompanied 

By  Averill : his,  a brother’s  love,  that 
hung 

With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o’er 
her  peace, 

Might  have  been  other,  save  for 
Leolin’s  — 

Who  knows  ? but  so  they  wander’d, 
hour  by  hour 


Gather’d  the  blossom  that  rebloom’d, 
and  drank 

The  magic  cup  that  filled  itself  anew. 

A whisper  half  reveal’d  her  to  her- 
self. 

For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the 
brook 

Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a silence, 
ran 

By  sallowy  rims,  arose  the  laborers’ 
homes, 

A frequent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low 
knolls 

That  dimpling  died  into  each  other, 
huts 

At  random  scatter’d,  each  a nest  in 
bloom. 

Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had 
wrought 

About  them : here  was  one  that,  sum- 
mer-blanch’d, 

Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  trav- 
eller’s joy 

In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad ; and  here 

The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a hidden 
hearth 

Broke  from  a bower  of  vine  and 
honeysuckle : 

One  look’d  all  rosetree,  and  another 
wore 

A close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown 
with  stars : 

This  had  a rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 

About  it ; this,  a milky-way  on  earth, 

Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer’s 
heavens, 

A lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors ; 

One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted 
eaves 

A summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks ; 

Each,  its  own  charm ; and  Edith’s 
everywhere ; 

And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him, 

He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her 
poor : 

For  she  — so  lowly-lovely  and  so 
loving, 

Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal 
hand 

Rose  from  the  clay  it  work’d  in  as  she 
past, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


143 


Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  pass- 
ing by, 

Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a 
height 

That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a 
voice 

Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 

A splendid  presence  flattering  the 
poor  roofs 

Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than 
themselves 

To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 

Or  old  bedridden  palsy,  — was  adored ; 

He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself. 
A grasp 

Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of 
the  heart, 

A childly  way  with  children,  and  a 
laugh 

Ringing  like  proven  golden  coinage 
true, 

Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy 
realm, 

Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side 
the  girl, 

Nursing  a child,  and  turning  to  the 
warmth 

The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby- 
soles, 

Heard  the  good  mothei  softly  whis- 
per “ Bless, 

God  bless  ’em : marriages  are  made 
in  Heaven.” 

A flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear’d  it 
to  her. 

My  lady’s  Indian  kinsman  unan- 
nounced 

With  half  a score  of  swarthy  faces 
came. 

His  own,  tho’  keen  and  bold  and  sol- 
dierly, 

Sear’d  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not 
fair ; 

Fairer  his  talk,  a tongue  that  ruled 
the  hour, 

Tho’  seeming  boastful : so  when  first 
he  dash’d 

Into  the  chronicle  of  a deedful  day, 

Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 

Of  patron  “ Good ! my  lady’s  kins- 
man ! good ! ” 


My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock’d, 
And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call’d  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen : unawares  they  flitted  off, 
Busying  themselves  about  the  flow- 
erage 

That  stood  from  out  a stiff  brocade 
in  which, 

The  meteor  of  a splendid  season,  she, 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago, 
Stept  thro’  the  stately  minuet  of  those 
days : 

But  Edith’s  eager  fancy  hurried  with 
him 

Snatch’d  thro’  the  perilous  passes  of 
his  life : 

Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye, 
Hated  him  with  a momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was 
he  : 

I know  not,  for  he  spoke  not,  only 
shower’d 

His  oriental  gifts  on  everyone 
And  most  on  Edith : like  a storm  he 
came, 

And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a 
storm  he  went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow’d  and  ebb’d  uncertain,  to 
return 

When  others  had  been  tested)  there 
was  one, 

A dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels 
on  it 

Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  branch’d 
itself 

Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a breath.  I know  not 
whence  at  first, 

Nor  of  what  race,  the  work;  but  as  he 
told 

The  story,  storming  a hill-fort  of 
thieves 

He  got  it ; for  their  captain  after  fight, 
His  comrades  having  fought  their 
last  below, 

Was  climbing  up  the  valley  ; at  whom 
he  shot : 

Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which 
he  clung 

Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet, 


144 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


This  dagger  with  him,  which  when 
now  admired 

By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to 
please, 

At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to 
her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  he  was 
gone, 

Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly : 

And  when  she  show’d  the  wealthy 
scabbard,  saying 

“ Look  what  a lovely  piece  of  work- 
manship ! ” 

Slight  was  his  anwser  “Well  — I care 
not  for  it” : 

Then  playing  with  the  blade  he 
prick’d  his  hand, 

“ A gracious  gift  to  give  a lady,  this  ! ” 

“ But  would  it  be  more  gracious  ” 
ask’d  the  girl 

“ Were  I to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 

That  is  no  lady  'l  ” “ Gracious  ? No 
said  he. 

“ Me  ? — but  I cared  not  for  it.  O 
pardon  me, 

I seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself.” 

“ Take  it  ” she  added  sweetly,  “ tho’ 
his  gift ; 

For  I am  more  ungracious  ev’n  than 
you, 

I care  not  for  it  either”;  and  he  said 

“ Why  then  I love  it  ” : but  Sir  Aylmer 
past, 

And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing 
he  heard. 

The  next  day  came  a neighbor. 
Blues  and  reds 

They  talk’d  of ; blues  were  sure  of  it, 
he  thought : 

Then  of  the  latest  fox  — where  started 
— kill’d 

In  such  a bottom : “ Peter  had  the 
brush, 

My  Peter,  first  ” : and  did  Sir  Aylmer 
know 

That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had 
been  caught  1 

Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to 
hand, 


And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance 
of  it 

Between  his  palms  a moment  up  and 
down  — 

“ The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were 
warm  upon  him ; 

We  have  him  now”-  and  had  Sir 
Aylmer  heard  — 

Nay,  but  he  must  — the  land  was 
ringing  of  it  — 

This  blacksmith  border-marriage  — 
one  they  knew  — 

Raw  from  the  nursery  — who  could 
trust  a child  ? 

That  cursed  Prance  with  her  egalities ! 

And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 

With  nearing  chair  and  lower’d  ac- 
cent) think  — 

For  people  talk’d  — that  it  was  wholly 
wise 

To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill 
walk 

So  freely  with  his  daughter  ? people 
talk’d  — 

The  boy  might  get  a notion  into 
him ; 

The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she 
knew. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  slowly  stiffening 
spoke : 

“ The  girl  and  boy,  Sir,  know  their 
differences  ! ” 

“ Good,”  said  his  friend,  “ but  watch ! ” 
and  he,  “ Enough, 

More  than  enough,  Sir ! I can  guard 
my  own.” 

They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer 
watch’d. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the 
house 

Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same 
night; 

Pale  as  the  Jephtha’s  daughter,  a 
rough  piece 

Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which 

Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to 
that 

Which  Leolin  open’d,  she  cast  back 
upon  him 

A piteous  glance,  and  vanish’d.  He, 
as  one 


AYLMER' S FIELD. 


145 


Caught  in  a burst  of  unexpected 
storm, 

And  pelted  with  outrageous  epi- 
thets, 

Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the 
House 

On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant  ; 
her, 

Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a feather- 
fan, 

Him,  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil 
spurr’d, 

And,  like  a beast  hard-ridden,  breath- 
ing hard. 

“ Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 

Presumptuous  ! trusted  as  he  was  with 
her, 

The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth, 
their  lands, 

The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their 
house, 

The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient 
name, 

Their  child.”  “Our  child!”  “Our 
heiress  ! ” “ Ours  ! ” for  still, 

Like  echoes  from  beyond  a hollow, 
came 

Her  sicklier  iteration.  Last  he  said, 

“ Boy,  mark  me ! for  your  fortunes 
are  to  make. 

I swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out 
of  mine. 

Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised 
on  her, 

Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget 
herself, 

Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and 
us  — 

Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem’d  impos- 
sible, 

Far  as  we  track  ourselves  — I say 
that  this  — 

Else  I withdraw  favor  and  counte- 
nance 

From  you  and  yours  for  ever  — shall 
you  do. 

Sir,  when  you  see  her  — but  you  shall 
not  see  her  — 

No,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her, 
but  me : 

And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken 
with  me, 


And  after  look’d  into  yourself,  you 
find 

That  you  meant  nothing  — as  indeed 
you  know 

That  you  meant  nothing.  Such  a 
match  as  this ! 

Vmpuosible,  prodigious  ! ” These  were 
words, 

As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself, 

Arguing  boundless  forbearance  : after 
which, 

And  Leolin’s  horror-stricken  answer, 
“I 

So  foul  a traitor  to  myself  and  her, 

Never  oh  never,”  for  about  as  long 

As  the  wind-hover  hangs  in  balance, 
paused 

Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm 
within, 

Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and 
crying 

“ Boy,  should  I find  you  by  my  doors 
again, 

My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like 
a dog; 

Hence ! ” with  a sudden  execration 
drove 

The  footstool  from  before  him,  and 
arose ; 

So,  stammering  “scoundrel”  out  of 
teeth  that  ground 

As  in  a dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin 
still 

Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old 
man 

Follow’d,  and  under  his  own  lintel 
stood 

Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a hoary 
face 

Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth, 
but  now, 

Beneath  a pale  and  unimpassion’d 
moon, 

Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and 
deform’d. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful 
eye 

That  watch’d  him,  till  he  heard  the 
ponderous  door 

Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro’ 
the  land, 


146 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Went  Leolin;  then,  his  passions  all 
in  flood 

And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 

Down  thro’  the  bright  lawns  to  his 
brother’s  ran, 

And  foam’d  away  his  heart  at  Aver- 
ill’s  ear : 

Whom  Averill  solaced  as  he  might, 
amazed : 

The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  fath- 
er’s, friend: 

He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen 
it  long ; 

He  must  have  known,  himself  had 
known:  besides, 

He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter 
forth 

Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the 
west, 

Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves 
be  sold. 

Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander’d 
Leolin  to  him. 

“Brother,  for  i have  loved  you  more 
as  son 

Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you : I my- 
self — 

What  is  their  pretty  saying  ? jilted, 
is  it  1 

Jilted  I was  : I say  it  for  your  peace. 

Pain’d,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the 
shame 

The  woman  should  have  borne,  humili- 
ated, 

I lived  for  years  a stunted  sunless  life ; 

Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 

Watching  your  growth,  I seem’d  again 
to  grow. 

Leolin,  I almost  sin  in  envying  you : 

The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 

Loves  you : I know  her : the  worst 
thought  she  has 

Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand : 

She  must  prove  true : for,  brother, 
where  two  fight 

The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love 
are  strength, 

And  you  are  happy : let  her  parents 
be.” 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon 
them  — 


Insolent,  brainless,  heartless  ! heiress, 
wealth, 

Their  wealth,  their  heiress ! wealth 
enough  was  theirs 

For  twenty  matches.  Were  he  lord 
of  this, 

Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should 
marry  on  it, 

And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and 
himself 

Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.  He 
believed 

This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mam- 
mon made 

The  harlot  of  the  cities : nature  crost 

Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 

That  saturate  soul  with  body.  Name, 
too ! name, 

Their  ancient  name ! they  might  be 
proud ; its  worth 

Was  being  Edith’s.  Ah  how  pale  she 
had  look’d 

Darling,  to-night!  they  must  have 
rated  her 

Beyond  all  tolerance.  These  old 
pheasant-lords, 

These  partridge-breeders  of  a thou- 
sand years, 

Who  had  mildew’d  in  their  thousands, 
doing  nothing 

Since  Egbert  — why,  the  greater  their 
disgrace ! 

Fall  back  upon  a name!  rest,  rot  in 
that ! 

Not  keep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler  ? 
fools, 

With  such  a vantage-ground  for  noble- 
ness ! 

He  had  known  a man,  a quintessence 
of  man, 

The  life  of  all  — who  madly  loved  — 
and  he, 

Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  father- 
fools, 

Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an 
end. 

He  would  not  do  it ! her  sweet  face 
and  faith 

Held  him  from  that : but  he  had  pow- 
ers, he  knew  it : 

Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a 
name, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


14? 


Name,  fortune  too : the  world  should 
ring  of  him 

To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in 
their  graves  : 

Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would 
he  be  — 

“ O brother,  I am  grieved  to  learn 
your  grief  — 

Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my 
say.” 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own 
excess, 

And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own, 

He  laugh’d ; and  then  was  mute ; but 
presently 

W ept  like  a storm : and  honest  Averill 
seeing 

How  low  his  brother’s  mood  had  fallen, 
fetch’d 

His  richest  beeswing  from  a binn  re- 
served 

For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red, 
and  told 

The  vintage  — when  this  Aylmer  came 
of  age  — 

Then  drank  and  past  it ; till  at  lengtli 
the  two, 

Tho’  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again, 
agreed 

That  much  allowance  must  be  made 
for  men. 

After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier 
glow 

Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose 
held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers 
met, 

A perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 

That  darken’d  all  the  northward  of 
her  Hall. 

Him,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom 
prest 

In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 

Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter 
her: 

He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go, 

Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 

In  such  a sunlight  of  prosperity 

He  should  not  be  rejected.  “ Write  to 
me ! 


They  loved  me,  and  because  I love 
their  child 

They  hate  me  : there  is  Avar  between 
us,  dear, 

Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours ; we 
must  remain 

Sacred  to  one  another.”  So  they 
talk’d, 

Poor  children,  for  their  comfort : the 
wind  blew  ; 

The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own 
bitter  tears, 

Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven, 
mixt 

Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss’d  each 
other 

In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar’d 
the  pine. 

So  Leolin  went ; and  as  we  task  our- 
selves 

To  learn  a language  known  but  smat- 
teringly 

In  phrases  here  and  there  at  random, 
toil’d 

Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our 
law, 

That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 

That  wilderness  of  single  instances, 

Thro’  which  a few,  by  Avit  or  fortune 
led, 

May  beat  a pathway  out  to  wealth  and 
fame. 

The  jests,  that  flash’d  about  the  plead- 
er’s room, 

Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the 
scurrilous  tale,  — 

Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades 
deep 

In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and 
died, 

And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall 
die  — 

Were  dead  to  him  already ; bent  as  he 
was 

To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong 
in  hopes, 

And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he, 

Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine,  and  exer- 
cise, 

Except  when  for  a breathing-while  at 
eve, 


148 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour,  he 
ran 

Beside  the  river-bank : and  then  indeed 

Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands 
of  power 

Were  bloodier,  and  the  according 
hearts  of  men 

Seem’d  harder  too ; but  the  soft  river- 
breeze, 

Which  fann’d  the  gardens  of  that  rival 
rose 

Yet  fragrant  in  a heart  remembering 

His  former  talks  with  Edith,  on  him 
breathed 

Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro, 

After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with 
air, 

Then  to  his  books  again.  My  lady’s 
cousin, 

. Half-sickening  of  his  pension’d  after- 
noon, 

Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or 
twice, 

Ban  a Malayan  amuck  against  the 
times, 

Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all 
mankind, 

Answer’d  all  queries  touching  those  at 
home 

With  a heaved  shoulder  and  a saucy 
smile, 

And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the 
world, 

And  air’d  him  there : his  nearer  friend 
would  say 

“ Screw  not  the  chord  too  sharply  lest 
it  snap.” 

Then  left  alone  he  pluck’d  her  dagger 
forth 

From  where  his  worldless  heart  had 
kept  it  warm, 

Kissing  his  vows  upon  it  like  a knight. 

And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk’d  of 
him 

Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise  : 

For  heart,  1 think,  help’d  head : her 
letters  too, 

Tho’  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 

Like  broken  music,  written  as  she 
found 

Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly 
watch’d, 


Charm’d  him  thro’  every  labyrinth  till 
he  saw 

An  end,  a hope,  a light  breaking  upon 
him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into 
flesh, 

Her  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued 
themselves 

To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her 
good. 

Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or 
wealth 

Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him 
they  lured 

Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the 
baits 

Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 

So  month  by  month  the  noise  about 
their  doors, 

And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  ban- 
quets, made 

The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent 
hare 

Falter  before  he  took  it.  All  in  vain. 

Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  return’d 

Leolin’s  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 

So  often,  tjiat  the  folly  taking  wings 

Slipt  o’er  those  lazy  limits  down  the 
wind 

With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 

A mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale, 

And  laughter  to  their  lords  : but  those 
at  home, 

As  hunters  round  a hunted  creature 
draw, 

The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward 
the  death, 

Narrow’d  her  goings  out  and  comings 
in ; 

Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 

Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier 
farms, 

Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the 
poor 

They  barr’d  her : yet  she  bore  it : yet 
her  cheek 

Kept  color : wondrous ! but,  O mystery ! 

What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that 
old  oak, 

So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a 
part 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


149 


Falling  had  let  appear  the  brand  of 
John  — 

Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a tree, 
but  now 

The  broken  base  of  a black  tower,  a 
cave 

Of  touchwood,  with  a single  flourish- 
ing spray. 

There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 

Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood- 
dust 

Found  for  himself  a bitter  treasure- 
trove  ; 

Burst  his  own  wy  vern  on  the  seal,  and 
read 

Writhing  a letter  from  his  child,  for 
which 

Came  at  the  moment  Leolin’s  emissary, 

A crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn’d  to 

fly, 

But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and 
halter  gave 

To  him  that  fluster’d  his  poor  parish 
wits 

The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore 
besides 

To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 

Nor  let  them  know  themselves  be- 
tray’d ; and  then, 

Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him, 
went 

Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miser- 
able. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a despot 
dream 

The  father  panting  woke,  and  oft,  as 
dawn 

Aroused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms, 

Sweeping  the  frothily  from  the  fescue 
brush’d 

Thro’  the  dim  meadow  toward  his 
treasure-trove, 

Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady, 
— who  made 

A downward  crescent  of  her  minion 
mouth, 

Listless  in  all  despondence,  — read  ; 
and  tore, 

As  if  the  living  passion  symbol’d  there 

Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent; 
and  burnt, 


Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self 
defied, 

Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks 
of  scorn 

In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scatter’d  all  over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a love  as  like  a chidden  child, 
After  much  wailing,  hush’d  itself  at 
last 

Hopeless  of  answer:  then  tho’  Averill 
wrote 

And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain 
himself  — 

All  would  be  well  — the  lover  heeded 
not, 

But  passionately  restless  came  and 
went, 

And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the 
place, 

There  by  a keeper  shot  at,  slightly 
hurt, 

Raging  return’d  : nor  was  it  well  for  her 
Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of 
pines, 

Watch’d  even  there  ; and  one  was  set 
to  watch 

The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch’d 
them  all, 

Yet  bitterer  from  his  readings:  once 
indeed, 

Warm’d  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride 
in  her, 

She  look’d  so  sweet,  he  kiss’d  her 
tenderly 

Not  knowing  what  possess’d  him : 
that  one  kiss 

Was  Leolin’s  one  strong  rival  upon 
earth ; 

Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow’d  suit, 
Seem’d  hope’s  returning  rose : and 
then  ensued 

A Martin’s  summer  of  his  faded  love, 
Or  ordeal  by  kindness  ; after  this 
He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a 
sneer ; 

The  mother  flow’d  in  shallower  acrimo- 
nies : 

Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly 
word  : 

So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from 
all 

Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 


150 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly 
lost 

Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on 
life. 

Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round 
to  spy 

The  weakness  of  a people  or  a house, 
Like  flies  that  haunt  a wound,  or  deer, 
or  men, 

Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the 
hurt  — 

Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him  — found 
the  girl 

And  flung  her  down  upon  a couch  of 
fire, 

Where  careless  of  the  household  faces 
near, 

And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 
She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer, 
past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light : may 
soul  to  soul 

Strike  thro’  a finer  element  of  her 
own1 

So, — from  afar,  — touch  as  at  once  ? 
or  why 

That  night,  that  moment,  when  she 
named  his  name, 

Did  the  keen  shriek  “Yes  love,  yes, 
Edith,  yes,” 

Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  cham- 
bers woke, 

And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from 
sleep, 

With  a weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and 
trembling, 

His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into 
flames, 

His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit, 
And  his  long  arms  stretch’d  as  to  grasp 
a flyer : 

Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made 
the  cry ; 

And  being  much  befool’d  and  idioted 
By  t^ie  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.  The  second  day, 
My  lady’s  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from 
home, 

Found  a dead  man,  a letter  edged  with 
death 


Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  him- 
self 

Gave  Edith,  redden’d  with  no  bandit’s 
blood : 

“From  Edith”  was  engraven  on  the 
blade. 


Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon 
his  death. 

And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock 
believed  — 

Beholding  how  the  years  which  are 
not  Time’s 

Had  blasted  him  — that  many  thou- 
sand days 

Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  term 
of  life. 

Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second 
death 

Scarce  touch’d  her  thro’  that  nearness 
of  the  first, 

And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor 
texts, 

Sent  to  the  harrow’d  brother,  praying 
him 

To  speak  before  the  people  of  her 
child, 

And  fixt  the  Sabbath.  Darkly  that 
day  rose : 

Autumn’s  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded 
woods 

Was  all  the  life  of  it;  for  hard  on 
these, 

A breathless  burthen  of  low-folded 
heavens 

Stifled  and  chill’d  at  once ; but  every 
roof 

Sent  out  a listener:  many  too  had 
known 

Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and 
since 

The  parents’  harshness  and  the  hap- 
less loves 

And  double  death  were  widely  mur- 
mur’d, left 

Their  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-faced 
tabernacle, 

To  hear  him  ; all  in  mourning  these, 
and  those 

With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon, 
glove 


AYLMER’S  FIELD. 


151 


Or  kerchief ; while  the  church,  — one 
night,  except 

For  greenish  glimmerings  thro’  the 
lancets,  — made 

Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who 
tower’d 

Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either 
grave. 

Long  o’er  his  bent  brows  linger’d 
Averill, 

His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from 
which 

Livid  he  pluck’d  it  forth,  and  labor’d 
thro’ 

His  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the 
verse  “ Behold, 

Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate ! ” 

But  lapsed  into  so  long  a pause 
again 

As  half  amazed  half  frighted  all  his 
flock : 

Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness 
of  grief 

Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash’d  his 
angry  heart 

Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became 
one  sea, 

Which  rolling  o’er  the  palaces  of  the 
proud, 

And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  liv- 
ing God  — 

Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a purer 
world  — 

When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 
thunder,  wrought 

Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idola- 
tries, 

Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 

Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven 
of  Heavens, 

And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as 
the  Highest  1 

“ Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy 
brute  Baal, 

And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 

For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou 
clothed  thy  God. 

Then  came  a Lord  in  no  wise  like  to 
Baal. 


The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.  Surely 
now 

The  wdlderness  shall  blossom  as  the 
rose. 

Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship 
thine  own  lusts  ! — 

No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel 
to  — 

Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and 
flowing  lawns, 

And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily 
grow, 

And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heral- 
dries. 

In  such  a shape  dost  thou  behold  thy 
God. 

Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him  „• 
for  thine 

Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a hair 
Ruffled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot 
die ; 

And  tho’  thou  numberest  with  the 
followers 

Of  One  who  cried,  ‘Leave  all  and  fol- 
low me.’ 

Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about 
thy  feet, 

Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine 
ears, 

Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord 
from  Heaven, 

Born  of  a village  girl,  carpenter’s  son, 
Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the 
Mighty  God, 

Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the 
two ; 

Crueller : as  not  passing  thro’  the  fire 
Bodies,  but  souls  — thy  children’s  — 
thro’  the  smoke. 

The  blight  of  low  desires  — darkening 
thine  own 

To  thine  own  likeness;  or  if  one  of 
these, 

Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee, 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight 
and  fair  — 

Friends,  I was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a 
one 


152 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sor- 
row for  her  — 

Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well, 

Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of 
corn, 

Fair  as  the  angel  that  said  ‘ Hail ! ’ 
she  seem’d, 

Who  entering  fill’d  the  house  with 
sudden  light. 

For  so  mine  own  was  brighten’d: 
where  indeed 

The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of 
Heaven 

Dawn’d  sometime  thro’  the  doorway  *? 
whose  the  babe 

Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 

Warm’d  at  her  bosom  1 The  poor 
child  of  shame 

The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared 
for,  leapt 

To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten 
heart, 

As  with  the  mother  he  had  never 
known, 

In  gambols ; for  her  fresh  and  inno- 
cent eyes 

Had  such  a star  of  morning  in  their 
blue, 

That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 

Broke  into  nature’s  music  when  they 
saw  her. 

Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysteri- 
ous way 

Thro’  the  seal’d  ear  to  which  a louder 
one 

Was  all  but  silence  — free  of  alms 
her  hand  — 

The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage- 
walls  with  flowers 

Has  often  toil’d  to  clothe  your  little 
ones ; 

How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man’s 
brow 

Cool’d  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow 
smooth ! 

Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared 
it  not1? 

One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten 
it  ? 

One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe  ? 

Or  when  some  heat  of  difference 
sparkled  out. 


How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between 
your  wraths, 

And  steal  you  from  each  other!  for 
she  walk’d 

Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord 
of  love, 

Who  still’d  the  rolling  wave  of 
Galilee ! 

And  one  — of  him  I was  not  bid  to 
speak  — 

Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also 
knew. 

Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy 
love. 

And  these  had  been  together  from  the 
first ; 

They  might  have  been  together  till 
the  last. 

Friends,  this  frail  bark  of  ours,  when 
sorely  tried, 

May  wreck  itself  without  the  pilot’s 
guilt, 

Without  the  captain’s  knowledge : 
hope  with  me. 

Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went 
hence  with  shame  ? 

Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of 
these 

I cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow’d 
walls, 

‘ My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate.’  ” 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers 
wept ; but  some, 

Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns 
than  those 

That  knit  themselves  for  summer 
shadow,  scowl’d 

At  their  great  lord.  He,  when  it 
seem’d  he  saw 

No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar, 
but  fork’d 

Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his 
head, 

Sat  anger-charm’d  from  sorrow,  sol- 
dier-like, 

Erect : but  when  the  preacher’s  ca- 
dence flow’d 

Softening  thro’  all  the  gentle  attri- 
butes 

Cf  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch’d 
his  face, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


153 


Paled  at  a sudden  twitch  of  his  iron 
mouth ; 

And  “ O pray  God  that  he  hold  up  ” 
she  thought 

“ Or  surely  I shall  shame  myself  and 
him.” 

“Nor  yours  the  blame  — for  who 
beside  your  hearths 

Can  take  her  place — if  echoing  me 
you  cry 

‘ Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  * ? 

But  thou,  O thou  that  killest,  hadst 
thou  known, 

O thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  under- 
stood 

The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace 
and  ours ! 

Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that 
calls 

Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste 
‘ Repent  ’ 1 

Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow 
way, 

Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in 
the  broad 

Cries  ‘ Come  up  hither/  as  a prophet 

to  US'? 

Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint 
and  rock  ? 

Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify  — 

No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire  ? 

Yes,  as  your  moanings  witness,  and 
myself 

Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my 
loss. 

Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past 
your  prayers, 

Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in 
Heaven. 

But  I that  thought  myself  long-suffer- 
ing, meek, 

Exceeding  ‘poor  in  spirit* — how  the 
words 

Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves, 
and  mean 

Yileness,  we  are  grown  so  proud  — I 
wish’d  my  voice 

A rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 

To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro’  the 
world  — 

Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 


To  inflame  the  tribes : but  there  — 
out  yonder  — earth 

Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell 
— 0 there 

The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry  — 

The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall 
so  fast, 

They  cling  together  in  the  ghastly 
sack  — 

The  land  all  shambles — naked  mar 
riages 

Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-mur- 
der’d  France, 

By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gath- 
ering wolf, 

Runs  in  a river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 

Is  this  a time  to  madden  madness  then? 

Was  this  a time  for  these  to  flaunt 
their  pride  ? 

May  Pharaoh’s  darkness,  folds  as 
dense  as  those 

Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  peo 
pie’s  eyes 

Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great 
sin  from  all ! 

Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must 
canvass  it : 

O rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them, 

Who,  thro’  their  own  desire  accom- 
plish’d, bring 

Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow"  to 
the  grave  — 

Who  broke  the  bond  which  they 
desired  to  break, 

Which  else  had  link’d  their  race  with 
times  to  come  — 

Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her 
purity, 

Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daugh- 
ter’s good  — 

Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they 
did,  but  sat 

Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daugh- 
ter’s death  ! 

May  not  that  earthly  chastisement 
suffice  ? • 

Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left 
them  bare  ? 

Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 

Will  there  be  children’s  laughter  in 
their  hall 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  or  one  stone 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


1 54 


Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a light  thing 

That  I,  their  guest,  their  host,  their 
ancient  friend, 

I made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my 
race, 

Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as 
cried 

Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that 
swore 

Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and 
made 

Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew 
the  Lord, 

And  left  their  memories  a world’s 
curse  — ‘ Behold, 

Your  house  is  left  unto  you  deso- 
late ’ ? ” 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook’d 
no  more : 

Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorse- 
lessly, 

Her  crampt-up  sorrow  pain’d  her,  and 
a sense 

Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 

Then  their  eyes  vext  her ; for  on  en- 
tering 

He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat 
aside  — 

Black  velvet  of  the  costliest  — she 
herself 

Had  seen  to  that : fain  had  she  closed 
them  now, 

Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near’d 

Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when 
she  laid, 

Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he 
veil’d 

His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once, 
as  falls 

A creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken, 
fell 

The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and 
swoon’d. 

Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the 
t nave 

Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  mea- 
gre face 

Seam’d  with  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty 
years : 

And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape 
round 


Ev’n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 

Who  peer’d  at  him  so  keenly,  follow’d 
out 

Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 

Reel’d,  as  a footsore  ox  in  crowded 
ways 

Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his 
death, 

Unpitied ; for  he  groped  as  blind,  and 
seem’d 

Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the 
pews 

And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch’d  the 
door ; 

Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot 
stood, 

Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect 
again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the 
gate 

Save  under  pall  with  bearers.  In  one 
month, 

Thro’  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier 
hours, 

The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her 
child  ; 

And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his 
house 

About  him,  and  the  change  and  not 
the  change, 

And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  ances- 
tors 

Staring  for  ever  from  their  gilded 
walls 

On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own 
head 

Began  to  droop,  to  fall ; the  man  be- 
came 

Imbecile ; his  one  word  was  “ deso- 
late ” ; 

Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death 
was  he ; 

But  when  the  second  Christmas  came, 
escaped 

His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he 
felt, 

To  find  a deeper  in  the  narrow 
gloom 

By  wife  and  child ; nor  wanted  at  his 
end 

The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 


SEA  DREAMS. 


155 


At  golden  thresholds ; nor  from  tender 
hearts, 

And  those  who  sorrow’d  o’er  a van- 
ish’d race, 

Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant’s  grave. 

Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken 
down, 

And  the  broad  woodland  parcell’d  into 
farms ; 

And  where  the  two  contrived  their 
daughter’s  good, 

Lies  the  hawk’s  cast,  the  mole  has 
made  his  run, 

The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plan- 
tain bores, 

The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless 
face, 

The  slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin 
weasel  there 

Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open 
field. 


SEA  DREAMS. 

A city  clerk,  but  gently  born  and 
bred ; 

His  wife,  an  unknown  artist’s  orphan 
child  — 

One  babe  was  theirs,  a Margaret,  three 
years  old : 

They,  thinking  that  her  clear  ger- 
mander eye 

Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city- 
gloom, 

Came,  with  a month’s  leave  given 
them,  to  the  sea  : 

For  which  his  gains  were  dock’d,  how- 
ever small : 

Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his 
work ; besides, 

Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for 
the  man 

Had  risk’d  his  little)  like  the  little 
thrift, 

Trembled  in  perilous  places  o’er  a 
deep : 

And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his 
face 

Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credu- 
lousness, 

And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which 
lured  him,  rogue, 


To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peru- 
vian mine. 

Now  seaward-bound  for  health  they 
gain’d  a coast, 

All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunning 
cave, 

At  close  of  day ; slept,  woke,  and 
went  the  next, 

The  Sabbath,  pious  variers  from  the 
church, 

To  chapel ; where  a heated  pulpiteer, 

Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple 
men, 

Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  ful- 
minated 

Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her 
creed ; 

For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms, 
and  shriek’d 

“ Thus,  thus  with  violence,”  ev’n  as  if 
he  held 

The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  him- 
self 

Were  that  great  Angel;  “Thus  with 
violence 

Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea; 

Then  comes  the  close.”  The  gentle- 
hearted  wife 

Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a world  ; 

He  at  his  own  : but  when  the  wordy 
storm 

Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced 
the  shore, 

Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing 
caves, 

Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but 
scarce  believed 

(The  sootflake  of  so  many  a summer 
still 

Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw, 
the  sea. 

So  now  on  sand  they  walk’d,  and  now 
on  cliff, 

Lingering  about  the  thymy  promon- 
tories, 

Till  all  the  sails  were  darken’d  in  the 
west, 

And  rosed  in  the  east : then  homeward 
and  to  bed : 

Where  she,  who  kept  a tender  Chris- 
tian hope, 

Haunting  a holy  text,  and  still  to  that 


156 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at 
night, 

“ Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your 
wrath,” 

Said,  “ Love,  forgive  him : ” but  he 
did  not  speak ; 

And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the 
wife, 

Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died 
for  all, 

And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men, 

And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their 
feuds. 


But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a 
full  tide 

Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the 
foremost  rocks 

Touching,  up  jetted  in  spirts  of  wild 
sea-smoke, 

And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam, 
and  fell 

In  vast  sea-cataracts  — ever  and  anon 

Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within 
the  cliffs 

Heard  thro’  the  living  roar.  At  this 
the  babe, 

Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them, 
wail’d  and  woke 

The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly 
cried, 

“ A wreck,  a wreck ! ” then  turn’d,  and 
groaning  said, 

“ Forgive  ! How  many  will  say,  ‘ for- 
give,’ and  find 

A sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 

To  hate  a little  longer ! No ; the  sin 

That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well 
forgive, 

Hypocrisy,  I saw  it  in  him  at  once. 

Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are 
best? 

Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a riper 
first? 

Too  ripe,  too  late  ! they  come  too  late 
for  use. 

Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and 
beast 

Something  divine  to  warn  them  of 
their  foes : 


And  such  a sense,  when  first  I fronted 
him, 

Said,  ‘ Trust  him  not ; ’ but  after 
when  I came 

To  know  him  more,  I lost  it,  knew  him 
less ; 

Fought  with  what  seem’d  my  own 
uncharity ; 

Sat  at  his  table ; drank  his  costly  wines; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for 
his  talk ; 

Went  further,  fool!  and  trusted  him 
with  all, 

All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a dozen 
years 

Of  dust  and  deskwork  : there  is  no 
such  mine, 

None ; but  a gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing 
gold, 

Not  making.  Ruin’d!  ruin’d!  the 
sea  roars 

Ruin : a fearful  night ! ” 

“Not  fearful;  fair,” 
Said  the  good  wife,  “if  every  star  in 
heaven 

Can  make  it  fair : you  do  but  hear 
the  tide. 

Had  you  ill  dreams  ?” 

“ O yes,”  he  said,  “ I dream’d 
Of  such  a tide  swelling  toward  the  land. 
And  I from  out  the  boundless  outer 
deep 

Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter’d 
one 

Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath 
the  cliffs. 

I thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless 
deep 

Bore  thro’  the  cave,  and  I was  heaved 
upon  it 

In  darkness:  then  I saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger.  ‘ What  a world,’ 
I thought, 

‘ To  live  in!’  but  in  moving  on  I found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave, 
Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream 
beyond : 

And  near  the  light  a giant  woman  sat, 
All  over  earthy,  like  a piece  of  earth, 
A pickaxe  in  her  hand : then  out  I slipt 


SEA  DREAMS. 


157 


Into  a land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird 
that  sings : 

And  here  the  night-light  flickering  in 
my  eyes 
Awoke  me.” 

“That  was  then  your  dream,”  she 
said, 

“ Not  sad,  but  sweet.” 

“ So  sweet,  I lay,”  said  he, 
“And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the 
stream 

In  fancy,  till  I slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision ; for  I dream ’d  that 
still 

The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore 
me  on, 

And  that  the  woman  walk’d  upon 
the  brink : 

I wonder’d  at  her  strength,  and  ask’d 
her  of  it : 

‘It  came/  she  said,  ‘by  working  in 
the  mines : ’ 

O then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I 
thought ; 

And  ask’d ; but  not  a word ; she  shook 
her  head. 

And  then  the  motion  of  the  current 
ceased, 

And  there  was  rolling  thunder;  and 
we  reach’d 

A mountain,  like  a wall  of  burs  and 
thorns ; 

But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the 
hill 

Trod  out  a path : I follow’d ; and  at 
top 

She  pointed  seaward : there  a fleet  of 
glass, 

That  seem’d  a fleet  of  jewels  under  me, 
Sailing  along  before  a gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thun- 
der, past 

In  sunshine : right  across  its  track 
there  lay, 

Down  in  the  water,  a long  reef  of  gold, 
Or  what  seem’d  gold : and  I was  glad 
at  first 

To  think  that  in  our  often-ransack’d 
world 


Still  so  much  gold  was  left ; and  then 
I fear’d 

Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splin- 
ter on  it, 

And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn 
them  off ; 

An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 

(I  thought  I could  have  died  to  save 
it)  near’d, 

Touch’d,  clink’d,  and  clash’d,  and 
vanish’d,  and  I woke, 

I heard  the  clash  so  clearly.  Now  I 
see 

My  dream  was  Life  ; the  woman  hon- 
est Work  ; 

And  my  poor  venture  but  a fleet  of 
glass 

Wreck’d  on  a reef  of  visionary  gold.” 

“ Nay,”  said  the  kindly  wife  to  com- 
fort him, 

“You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled 
down  and  broke 

The  glass  with  little  Margaret’s  medi- 
cine in  it ; 

And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and 
broke  your  dream  : 

A trifle  makes  a dream,  a trifle  breaks.” 

“ No  trifle,”  groan’d  the  husband ; 
“yesterday 

I met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and 
ask’d 

That  which  I ask’d  the  woman  in  my 
dream. 

Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.  ‘ Show 
me  the  books ! ’ 

He  dodged  me  with  a long  and  loose 
account. 

‘ The  books,  the  books ! ’ but  he,  he 
could  not  wait, 

Bound  on  a matter  he  of  life  and 
death  : 

When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel 
seven  and  ten) 

Were  open’d,  I should  find  he  meant 
me  well; 

And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and 
ooze 

All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 

That  makes  the  widow  lean.  ‘My 
dearest  friend, 


158 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Have  faith,  have  faith!  We  live  by 
faith/  said  he ; 

‘ And  all  things  work  together  for  t>he 
good 

Of  those  ’ — it  makes  me  sick  to  quote 
him  — last 

Gript  my  hand  hard,  and  with  God- 
bless-you  went. 

I stood  like  one  that  had  received  a 
blow : 

I found  a hard  friend  in  his  loose  ac- 
counts, 

A loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his 
hand, 

A curse  in  his  God-bless-you  : then  my 
eyes 

Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far 
away, 

Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the 
crowd, 

Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back, 

And  scoundrel  in  the  supple-sliding 
knee.” 

“Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul?” 
said  the  good  wife  ; 

“ So  are  we  all : but  do  not  ca'll  him, 
love, 

Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and 
proved,  forgive. 

His  gain  is  loss ; for  he  that  wrongs 
his  friend 

Wrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears 
about 

A silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast, 

Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  him- 
self 

The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  con- 
demn’d : 

And  that  drags  down  his  life  : then 
comes  what  comes 

Hereafter  : and  he  meant,  he  said  he 
meant, 

Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant, 
you  well.” 

“ ‘ With  all  his  conscience  and  one 
eye  askew  ’ — 

Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that 
you  may  learn 

A man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself, 


Too  often,  in  that  silent  court  of 
yours  — 

* With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 
askew, 

So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for 
true ; 

Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his 
heart  was  dry, 

Made  wTet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round 
his  eye ; 

Who,  never  naming  God  except  for 
gain, 

So  never  took  that  useful  name  in 
vain, 

Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross 
his  tool, 

And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe 
and  fool ; 

Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace 
he  forged, 

And  snake-like  slimed  his  victim  ere 
lie  gorged ; 

And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o’er  the 
rest 

Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best, 
Dropping  the  too  rough  H in  Hell 
and  Heaven, 

To  spread  the  Word  by  which  him- 
self had  thriven.’ 

How  like  you  this  old  satire  % ” 

“Nay,”  she  said, 
“ I loathe  it : he  had  never  kindly 
heart, 

Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind, 
Who  first  wrote  satire,  with  no  pity 
in  it. 

But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I 
had  one 

That  altogether  went  to  music  ? Still 
It  awed  me.” 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream’d 
Of  that  same  coast. 

— But  round  the  North,  a light, 
A belt,  it  seem’d,  of  luminous  vapor, 
lay, 

And  ever  in  it  a low  musical  note 
Swell’d  up  and  died ; and,  as  it 
swell’d,  a ridge 


SEA  DREAMS. 


159 


Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and 
still 

Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when 
the  note 

Had  reach’d  a thunderous  fullness, 
on  those  cliffs 

Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the 
same  as  that 

Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she 
saw 

That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were 
cliffs  no  more, 

But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every 
age, 

Grave,  florid,  stern,  as  far  as  eye 
could  see, 

One  after  one : and  then  the  great 
ridge  drew, 

Lessening  to  the  lessening  music, 
back, 

And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell’d 
again 

Slowly  to  music  : ever  when  it  broke 

The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder 
fell; 

Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of 
ruin  left 

Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters 
round, 

Some  crying,  “ Set  them  up  ! they  shall 
not  fall ! ” 

And  others,  “ Let  them  lie,  for  they 
have  fall’n.” 

And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled : 
and  she  grieved 

In  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not 
why,  to  find 

Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of 
tune 

With  that  sweet  note;  and  ever  as 
their  shrieks 

Ran  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great 
wave 

Returning,  while  none  mark’d  it,  on 
the  crowd 

Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light,  and 
show’d  their  eyes 

Glaring,  with  passionate  looks,  and 
swept  away 

The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men 
of  stone, 

To  the  waste  deeps  together. 


“ Then  I fixt 

My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images, 
Both  crown’d  with  stars  and  high 
among  the  stars, — 

The  Virgin  Mother  standing  with  her 
child 

High  up  on  one  of  those  dark1  min- 
ster-fronts — 

Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a 
cry 

Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret’s, 
and  I woke, 

And  my  dream  awed  me : — well  — 
but  what  are  dreams  ? 

Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of 
a glass, 

And  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a 
child.” 

“ Child  ? No  ! ” said  he,  “ but  ibis 
tide’s  roar,  and  his, 

Our  Boanerges  with  his  threats  of 
doom, 

And  loud-lung’d  Antibabylonianisms 
( Altho’  I grant  but  little  music  th*  re ) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream  : but 
if  there  were 

A music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries, 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you 
dream’d  about, 

Why,  that  would  make  our  passions 
far  too  like 

The  discords  dear  to  the  musician. 
No- 

One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the 
hymns  of  heaven : 

True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl 
in  tune 

With  nothing  but  the  Devil ! ” 

“ ‘ True ’ indeed ! 
One  out  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an 
hour 

Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me 
on  the  shore ; 

While  you  were  running  down  the 
sands,  and  made 

The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbe- 
low flap, 

Good  man,  to  please  the  child.  She 
brought  strange  news. 


160 


LUCRETIUS. 


Why  were  you  silent  when  I spoke 
to-night  ? 

I had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving 
him 

Before  you  knew.  We  must  forgive 
the  dead.” 

“ Dead ! who  is  dead  ? ” 

“ The  man  your  eye  pursued. 

A little  after  you  had  parted  with 
him, 

He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart- 
disease.” 

“Dead?  he?  of  heart-disease  ? what 
heart  had  he 

To  die  of  ? dead  ? ” 

“ Ah,  dearest,  if  there  he 

A devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 

And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge 
him  with, 

His  angel  broke  his  heart.  But  your 
rough  voice 

(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the 
child  again. 

Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep ! will  she  not 
sleep 

Without  her  ‘ little  birdie  * ? well  then, 
sleep, 

And  I will  sing  you,  ‘ birdie.’  ” 

Saying  this, 

The  woman  half  turn’d  round  from 
him  she  loved, 

Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching 
thro’  the  night 

Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close 
beside) 

And  half-embraced  the  basket  cradle- 
head 

With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the 
pliant  bough 

That  moving  moves  the  nest  and 
nestling,  sway’d 

The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby 
song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 

In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 

Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 


Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 

Birdie,  rest  a little  longer, 

Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a little  longer, 

Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 

In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 

Baby  says,  like  little  birdie. 

Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 

Baby,  sleep  a little  longer, 

Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a little  longer, 

Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

“ She  sleeps : let  us  too,  let  all  evil, 
sleep. 

He  also  sleeps — another  sleep  than 
ours. 

He  can  do  no  more  wrong : forgive 
him,  dear, 

And  I shall  sleep  the  sounder ! ” 

Then  the  man, 
“ His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet 
to  come. 

Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night 
be  sound : 

I do  forgive  him ! ” 

“ Thanks,  my  love,”  she  said, 
“ Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,”  and 
they  slept. 


LUCRETIUS. 

Lucilia,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 

Her  master  cold ; for  when  the  morn- 
ing flush 

Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had 
died 

Between  them,  tho’  he  lov’d  her  none 
the  less, 

Yet  often  when  the  woman  heard  his 
foot 

Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and 
ran 

To  greet  him  with  a kiss,  the  master  . 
took 

Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for  — his 
mind 


LUCRETIUS. 


161 


Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argu- 
ment, 

Or  fancy,  borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 

And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter  — lie 
past 

To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hun- 
dred scrolls 

Left  by  the  Teacher,  whom  he  held 
divine. 

She  brook’d  it  not ; but  wrathful,  pet- 
ulant, 

Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and 
found  a witch 

Who  brew’d  the  philtre  which  had 
power,  they  said, 

To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 

And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with 
his  drink, 

And  this  destroy’d  him  ; for  the  wicked 
broth 

Confused  the  chemic  labor  of  the 
blood, 

And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within 
the  man’s 

Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells, 
and  check’d 

His  power  to  shape : he  loathed  him- 
self ; and  once 

After  a tempest  woke  upon  a morn 

That  mock’d  him  with  returning  calm, 
and  cried  : 

“ Storm  in  the  night ! for  thrice  I 
heard  the  rain 

Rushing;  and  once  the  flash  of  a 
thunderbolt  — 

Methought  I never  saw  so  fierce  a 
fork  — 

Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain- 
side, and  show’d 

A riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 

Blanching  and  billowing  in  a hollow 
of  it, 

Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty- 
dry. 

“ Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy 
Gods,  what  dreams  ! 

For  thrice  I waken’d  after  dreams. 
Perchance 

We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that 
come 


Just  ere  the  waking:  terrible!  for  it 
seem’d 

A void  was  made  in  Nature ; all  her 
bonds 

Crack’d ; and  I saw  the  flaring  atom- 
streams 

And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 
Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and 
make 

Another  and  another  frame  of  things 
For  ever : that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I 
knew  it  — 

Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 
With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot 
plies 

His  function  of  the  woodland : but  the 
next ! 

I thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla 
shed 

Came  driving  rainlike  down  again  on 
earth, 

And  where  it  dash’d  the  reddening 
meadow,  sprang 

No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean 
teeth, 

For  these  I thought  my  dream  would 
show  to  me, 

But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art, 
Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that 
made 

The  mulberry -faced  Dictator’s  orgies 
worse 

Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet 
Gods. 

And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell’d  and 
round  me  drove 

In  narrowing  circles  till  I yell’d  again 
Half-suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and 
saw  — 

Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest 
day  ? 

“ Then,  then,  from  utter  gloom  stood 
out  the  breasts, 

The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly 
a sword 

Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct, 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down 
shamed 

At  all  that  beauty ; and  as  I stared,  a 
fire, 


152 


LUCRETIUS. 


The  fire  that  left  a roofless  Ilion, 

Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch’d  me 
that  I woke. 

“ Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus, 
thine, 

Because  I would  not  one  of  thine  own 
doves, 

Not  ev’n  a rose,  were  offer’d  to  thee  ? 
thine, 

Forgetful  how  my  rich  prooemion 
makes 

Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field, 

In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity  ? 

“ Deity  ? nay,  thy  worshippers.  My 
tongue 

Trips,  or  I speak  profanely.  Which  of 
these 

Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at 
all? 

Not  if  thou  be’st  of  those  who,  far 
aloof 

From  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite 
and  scorn, 

Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  great- 
est fain 

Would  follow,  center’d  in  eternal  calm. 

“ Nay,  if  thou  canst,  0 Goddess,  like 
ourselves 

Touch,  and  he  touch’d,  then  would  I 
cry  to  thee 

To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender 
arms 

Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the 
lust  of  blood 

That  makes  a steaming  slaughter- 
house of  Rome. 

“ Ay,  but  I meant  not  thee  ; I meant 
not  her, 

Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to 
see 

Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers, 
and  tempt 

The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were 
abroad ; 

Nor  her  that  o’er  her  wounded  hunter 
wept 

Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous 
tears ; 


Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.  Rather,  <J  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  — did  I take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow 
forth 

The  all-generating  powers  and  genial 
heat 

Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro’  the 
thick  blood 

Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs 
are  glad 

Nosing  the  mother’s  udder,  and  the 
bird 

Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze 
of  flowers : 

Which  things  appear  the  work  of 
mighty  Gods. 

“ The  Gods  ! and  if  I go,  my  work  is 
left 

Unfinish’d  — if  I go.  The  Gods,  who 
haunt 

The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and 
world, 

Where  never  creeps  a cloud,  or  moves 
a wind, 

Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of 
snow, 

Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow' mounts  to 
mar 

Their  sacred  everlasting  calm ! and 
such, 

Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a calm, 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may 
gain 

Letting  his  own  life  go.  The  Gods, 
the  Gods  ! 

If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the 
Gods 

Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 

Not  follow  the  great  law  ? My  master 
held 

That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so 
believe. 

I prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and 
meant 

Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a train 
Of  flowery  clauses  opwardto  the  proof 
That  Gods  there  are,  and  deathless. 


LUCRETIUS. 


163 


Meant  ? I meant ? 

I have  forgotten  what  I meant : my 
mind 

Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are 
lamed. 

“ Look  where  another  of  our  Gods, 
the  Sun, 

Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 

All-seeing  Hyperion  — what  you 
will  — 

Has  mounted  yonder ; since  he  never 
sware, 

Except  his  wrath  were  wreak’d  on 
wretched  man, 

That  he  would  only  shine  among  the 
dead 

Hereafter;  tales!  for  never  yet  on 
earth 

Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roast- 
ing ox 

Moan  round  the  spit  — nor  knows  he 
what  he  sees ; 

King  of  the  East  altho’  he  seem,  and 
girt 

With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance, 
slowly  lifts 

His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled 
stairs 

That  climb  into  the  windy  halls  of 
heaven  : 

And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new- 
born, 

And  gets  for  greeting  but  a wail  of 
pain ; 

And  here  he  stays  upon  a freezing 
orb 

That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the 
last ; 

And  here  upon  a yellow  eyelid  fall’n 

And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a 
friend  in  vain, 

Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no 
more. 

And  me,  altho’  his  fire  is  on  my  face 

Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can 
tell 

Whether  I mean  this  day  to  end  my- 
self, 

Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 

That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit 
the  post 


Allotted  by  the  Gods : but  he  that 
holds 

The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need 
he  care 

Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge 
at  once, 

Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight, 
and  sink 

Past  earthquake  — ay,  and  gout  and 
stone,  that  break 

Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death- 
in-life, 

And  wretched  age  — and  worst  disease 
of  all, 

These  prodigies  of  myriad  naked- 
nesses, 

And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeak- 
able, 

Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 

Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every 
dish, 

The  phantom  husks  of  something 
foully  done, 

And  fleeting  thro’  the  boundless  uni- 
verse, 

And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my 
breast 

With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity? 

“ How  should  the  mind,  except  it 
loved  them,  clasp 

These  idols  to  herself  ? or  do  they  fly 

Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like 
the  flakes 

In  a fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  per- 
force 

Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an 
hour 

Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and 
bear 

The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their 
rags  and  they 

The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 

Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of 
the  land  ? 

“ Can  I not  fling  this  horror  off  me 
again, 

Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature 
can  smile, 

Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of 
storm, 


1G4 


LC/CRETIUS. 


At  random  ravage  1 and  how  easily 

The  mountain  there  has  cast  his 
cloudy  slough, 

Now  towering  o’er  him  in  serenest  air, 

A mountain  o’er  a mountain,  — ay, 
and  within 

All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of 
men  ? 

“ But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  gar- 
den snared 

Ficus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods  ? a tale 

To  laugh  at — -more  to  laugh  at  in 
myself  — 

Nor  look ! what  is  it  ? there  ? yon 
arbutus 

Totters  ; a noiseless  riot  underneath 

Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the 
tops  quivering  — 

The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph 
and  Faun ; 

And  here  an  Oread  — how  the  sun 
delights 

To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery 
sides, 

And  rosy  knees  and  supple  rounded- 
ness, 

And  budded  bosom-peaks  — who  this 
way  runs 

Before  the  rest  — A satyr,  a satyr,  see, 

Follows  ; but  him  I proved  impossible ; 

Twy-natured  is  no  nature : yet  he 
draws 

Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I scan  him 
now 

Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his 
kind 

That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother- 
brute 

For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender  : 

I hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him  ; and 

she. 

Loathes  him  as  well ; such  a precipi- 
tate heel, 

Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury’s 
ankle-wing, 

Whirls  her  to  me  : but  will  she  fling 
herself, 

Shameless  upon  me  1 Catch  her, 
goat-foot : nay, 

Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled 
wilderness, 


And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide ! 
do  I wish  — 

What  ? — that  the  bush  were  leafless  1 
or  to  whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre  ? 0 ye 

Gods, 

I know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to 
you 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I 
call  — 

I thought  I lived  securely  as  your- 
selves — 

No  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey- 
spite, 

No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice, 
none : 

No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  or 
pine 

With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass, 
to  take 

Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly- 
warm, 

Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 

Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 

Of  settled,  sweet,  Epicurean  life. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  mon- 
ster lays 

His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my 
will, 

Wrenching  it  backward  into  his;  and 
spoils 

My  bliss  in  being ; and  it  was  not 
great ; 

For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in 
rhythm, 

Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words, 

To  make  a truth  less  harsh,  I often 
grew 

Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an 
hour 

Crown’d  with  a flower  or  two,  and 
there  an  end  — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems 
to  fade, 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I find  my- 
self, 

Not  manlike  end  myself  ? — our  privi- 
lege — 

What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it  1 And 
what  man, 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.  165 


What  Roman  would  be  dragg’d  in  tri- 
umph thus  ? 

Not  I ; not  he,  who  bears  one  name 
with  her 

Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless 
doom  of  kings, 

When,  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in 
her  veins, 

She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Col- 
latine 

And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltless 
air, 

Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in 
her  heart. 

And  from  it  sprang  the  Common- 
wealth, which  breaks 
As  I am  breaking  now  ! 

“ And  therefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb 
of  all, 

Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far 
apart 

Those  blind  beginnings  thathave  made 
me  man, 

Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Thro’  all  her  cycles  — into  man  once 
more, 

Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent 
flower  : 

But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter’d  into  one  earthquake  in  one 
day 

Cracks  all  to  pieces,  — and  that  hour 
perhaps 

Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a something  to 
himself, 

But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes 
and  fanes, 

And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within 
the  grave, 

The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself 
shall  pass, 

Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and 
void, 

Into  the  unseen  for  ever,  — till  that 
hour, 

My  golden  work  in  which  I told  a truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 
And  numbs  the  Fury’s  ringlet-snake, 
and  plucks 


The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal 
hell, 

Shall  stand  : ay,  surely  : then  it  fails 
at  last 

And  perishes  as  I must ; for  O Thou, 

Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 

Yearn’d  after  by  the  wisest  of  the 
wise, 

Who  fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou 
art 

Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one 
pain, 

Howbeit  I know  thou  surely  must  be 
mine 

Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 

I woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 

How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so 
they  win  — 

Thus  — thus  : the  soul  flies  out  and 
dies  in  the  air.” 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into 
his  side  : 

She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ; 
ran  in, 

Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon 
herself 

As  having  fail’d  in  duty  to  him, 
shriek’d 

That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back, 
fell  on  him, 

Clasp’d,  kiss’d  him,  wail’d : he  an- 
swer’d, “ Care  not  thou  ! 

Thy  duty  ? What  is  duty  ? Fare 
thee  well ! ” 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

PUBLISHED  IN  1852. 


Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire’s  lamentation, 

Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a 
mighty  nation, 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior’s  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall 


166  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 


ii. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom 
we  deplore  % 

Here,  in  streaming  London’s  central 
roar. 

Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 

hi. 

Lead  out  the  pageant : sad  and  slow, 
As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it 
grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music 
blow ; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV. 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the 
Past. 

No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he 
greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the 
street. 

O friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is 
mute  : 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring 
blood, 

The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  res- 
olute, 

Whole  in  himself,  a common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influ- 
ence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

O good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O voice  from  which  their  omens  all 
men  drew, 

O iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

0 fall’n  at  length  that  tower  of 
strength 

Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the 
winds  that  blew  ! 


Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o’er. 
The  great  World-victor’s  victor  will 
be  seen  no  more. 

v. 

All  is  over  and  done  : 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 
Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d : 

And  a reverent  people  behold 
The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 
Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon’d 
deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d  : 

And  a deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be 
knoll’d  ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  an- 
them roll’d 

Thro’  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 
And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his 
loss ; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a time  in  many  a clime 
His  captain’s-ear  has  heard  them 
boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom : 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices 
wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from 
shame ; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 
tain taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A man  of  well-attemper’d  frame. 

O civic  muse,  to  such  a name, 

To  such  a name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a name, 

Preserve  a broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.  167 


VI. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  hon- 
or’d guest, 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with 
soldier  and  with  priest, 

With  a nation  weeping,  and  breaking 
on  my  rest  1 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou 
famous  man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world 
began. 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 
For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea ; 
His  foes  were  thine ; he  kept  us  free ; 
0 give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 

For  this  is  England’s  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain’d  a hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  : 

This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clash’d  with  his  fiery  few  and  won ; 
And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 
The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labor’d  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 
Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 
Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 
Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 
Till  o’er  the  hills  h^r  eagles  flew 
Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow’d  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 
Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 
And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 
Such  a war  had  such  a close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheel’d  on  Europe-sliadow- 
ing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 
Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty’s  iron 
crown 


On  that  loud  Sabbath  shook  the 
spoiler  down  ; 

A day  of  onsets  of  despair! 

Dash’d  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam’d  them- 
selves away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 
Thro’  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash’d  a sudden  jubilant  ray, 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and 
overthrew. 

So  great  a soldier  taught  us  there, 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world  earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  arid  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven 
guile, 

O saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at 
all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 
thine  ! 

And  thro’  the  centuries  let  a people’s 
voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A people’s  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human 
fame, 

A people’s  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
Attest  their  great  commander’s  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to 
him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

VII. 

A people’s  voice  ! we  are  a people  yet. 
Tho’  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams 
forget, 

Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  law- 
less Powers ; 

Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and 
roughly  set 

His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming 
showers, 

We  have  a voice,  with  which  to  pay 
the  debt 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and 
regret 


168  ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 


To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and 
kept  it  ours. 

And  keep  it  ours,  0 God,  from  brute 
control ; 

0 Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye, 
the  soul 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England 
whole, 

And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  free- 
dom sown 

Betwixt  a people  and  their  ancient 
throne, 

That  sober  freedom  out  of  which 
there  springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate 
kings  ; 

For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  man- 
kind 

Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into 
dust, 

And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march 
of  mind, 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and 
crowns  be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  over- 
trust. 

Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 
wall ; 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

For  ever;  and  whatever  tempests  lour 

For  ever  silent;  even  if  they  broke 

In  thunder,  silent ; yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man 
who  spoke ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the 
hour, 

Nor  palter’d  with  Eternal  God  for 
power ; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor 
flow 

Thro’  either  babbling  world  of  high 
and  low ; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language 
rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a foe  ; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one 
rebuke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on 
the  right : 


Truth-teller  was  our  England’s  Alfred 
named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

VIII. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow’d  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open 
hands 

Lavish  Honor  shower’d  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her 
horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory; 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle 
bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island- 
story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory . 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and 
hands, 

Thro’  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light 
has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail’d, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty 
scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table- 
lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon 
and  sun. 

Such  was  he : his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  en- 
dure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  states 
man  pure : 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro’  all  human 
story 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY,  1852. 


169 


The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory  : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearts  he 
saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-illumined  cities 
flame. 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader’s  fame, 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to 
him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

IX. 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 
By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 
Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not 
see : 

Peace,  it  is  a day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung : 

O peace,  it  is  a day  of  pain 
For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart 
and  brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe 
hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 

More  than  is  of  man’s  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere ; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a wise  humility 
As  befits  a solemn  fane : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music’s  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are 
we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so 
true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to 
do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  th o’  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the 
hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 
Tho’  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 
roll 


Bound  us,  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 
trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the 
people’s  ears : 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are 
sobs  and  tears : 

The  black  earth  yawns  : the  mortal 
disappears ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust; 

He  is  gone  who  seem’d  so  great.  — 
Gone ; but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave 
him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 

THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY, 

1852. 

My  Lords,  we  heard  you  speak : you 
told  us  all 

That  England’s  honest  censure  went 
too  far ; 

That  our  free  press  should  cease  to 
brawl, 

Not  sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into 
war. 

It  was  our  ancient  privilege,  my  Lords, 
To  fling  whate’er  we  felt,  not  fearing, 
into  words. 

We  love  not  this  French  God,  the 
child  of  Hell, 

Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse 
of  the  wise ; 

But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so 
well, 

We  dare  notev’n  by  silence  sanction 
lies. 

It  might  be  safe  our  censures  to  with- 
draw ; 

And  yet,  my  Lords,  not  well : there  is 
a higher  law. 


170 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak 
free, 

Tho’  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on  us 
break ; 

No  little  German  state  are  we, 

But  the  one  voice  in  Europe : we 
must  speak ; 

That  if  to-night  our  greatness  were 
struck  dead, 

There  might  be  left  some  record  of 
the  things  we  said. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be 
bold. 

Our  Britain  cannot  salve  a tyrant 
o’er. 

Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll’d 

On  her  and  us  and  ours  for  evermore. 

What ! have  we  fought  for  Freedom 
from  our  prime. 

At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a 
public  crime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him  ? our  own  we  never 
fear’d. 

From  our  first  Charles  by  force  we 
wrung  our  claims. 

Prick’d  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear’d, 

We  flung  the  burden  of  the  second 
James. 

I say,  we  never  feared ! and  as  for  these, 

We  broke  them  on  the  land,  we  drove 
them  on  the  seas. 

And  you,  my  Lords,  you  make  the 
people  muse 

In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons’ 
breed  — 

Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  at 
Lewes  i 

Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runny- 
mude  ? 

O fall’n  nobility,  that,  overawed. 

Would  lisp  in  honey’d  whispers  of 
this  monstrous  fraud ! 

We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here 
were  sin, 

Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble 
hosts  — 

If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 


Have  left  the  last  free  race  with 
naked  coasts ! 

They  knew  the  precious  things  they 
had  to  guard : 

For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant 
one  hard  word. 

Tho’  niggard  throats  of  Manchester 
may  bawl, 

What  England  was,  shall  her  true 
sons  forget  ? 

We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 

But  some  love  England  and  her 
honor  yet. 

And  these  in  our  Thermopylae  shall 
stand, 

And  hold  against  the  world  this  honor 
of  the  land. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 


Half  a league,  half  a league, 
Half  a league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

“ Forward,  the  Light  Brigade ! 
Charge  for  the  guns,”  he  said  ; 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

ii. 

“ Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Was  there  a man  dismay’d  ? 
Not  tho’  the  soldier  knew 
Some  one  had  blunder’d : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

in. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volley’d  and  thunder’d ; 
Storm’d  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 


OPENING  OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL  EXHIBITION.  171 


Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

IV. 

Flash’d  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash’d  as  they  turn’d  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wonder’d  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro’  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel’d  from  the  sabre-stroke 
Shatter’d  and  sunder’d. 

Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

v. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  behind  them 
Volley’d  and  thunder’d  ; 
Storm’d  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 

They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro’  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

VI. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 

O the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder’d. 

Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING 
OF  THE  INTERNATIONAL 
EXHIBITION. 


Uplift  a thousand  voices  full  and 
sweet, 

In  this  wide  hall  with  earth’s  inven- 
tion stored, 

And  praise  the  invisible  universal 
Lord, 


Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  na- 
tions meet, 

Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor 
have  outpour’d 

Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our 
feet. 

ii. 

0 silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 
Mourn’d  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee, 
For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks 
to  thee ! 

hi. 

The  world-compelling  plan  was 
thine,  — 

And,  lo  ! the  long  laborious  miles 
Of  Palace ; lo  ! the  giant  aisles, 

Rich  in  model  and  design  ; 
Harvest-tool  and  husbandry, 

Loom  and  wheel  and  enginery, 
Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine, 
Fabric  rough,  or  fairy-fine, 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a feast 
Of  wonder,  out  of  West  and  East, 
And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine ! 
All  of  beauty,  all  of  use, 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce, 
Brought  from  under  eveiy  star, 
Blown  from  over  every  main, 

And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 
The  works  of  peace  with  works  of 
war. 

IV. 

Is  the  goal  so  far  away  1 
Far,  how  far  no  tongue  can  say, 
Let  us  dream  our  dream  to-day. 

v. 

O ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who 
reign, 

From  growing  commerce  loose  her 
latest  chain, 

And  let  the  fair  white-wing’d  peace- 
maker fly 

To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 
And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden 
hours  ; 

Till  each  man  find  his  own  in  all 
men’s  good, 


172 


A WELCOME  TO  MARIE  ALEXANDROVNA. 


And  all  men  work  in  noble  brother- 
hood, 

Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and 
armed  towers, 

And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature’s 
powers, 

And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  earth 
and  crown’d  with  all  her  flow- 
ers. 


A WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 

MARCH  7,  1863. 

Sea-kings’  daughter  from  over  the 
sea,  Alexandra ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome 
of  thee,  Alexandra ! 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of 
fleet! 

Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the 
street ! 

Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and 
sweet, 

Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet ! 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flow- 
ers! 

Make  music,  O bird,  in  the  new-budded 
bowers ! 

Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and 
prayer ! 

Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is 
ours! 

Warble,  O bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare! 

Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and 
towers  ! 

Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare ! 

Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 

Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March 
air  ! 

Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire ! 

Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and 
higher 

Melt  into  stars  for  the  land’s  desire ! 

Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 

Roll  as  a ground-swell  dash’d  on  the 
strand, 

Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the 
land, 

And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land’s 
desire, 


The  sea-kings’  daughter  as  happy  as 
fair. 

Blissful  bride  of  a blissful  heir, 

Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the 
sea  — 

O joy  to  the  people  and  }oy  to  the 
throne, 

Come  to  us,  love  us  and  make  us  your 
own  : 

For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 

Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be. 

We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome 
of  thee,  Alexandra ! 


A WELCOME  TO  HER  ROYAL 
HIGHNESS  MARIE  ALEX- 
ANDROVNA, DUCHESS  OF 
EDINBURGH. 

MARCH  7,  1874. 

I. 

The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove 
for  power  — 

Whose  will  is  lord  thro’  all  his 
world-domain  — 

Who  made  the  serf  a man,  and  burst 
his  chain  — 

Has  given  our  Prince  his  own  imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 

And  welcome,  Russian  flower,  a 
people’s  pride, 

To  Britain,  when  her  flowers  begin 
to  blow  ! 

From  love  to  love,  from  home  to 
„ home  you  go, 

From  mother  unto  mother,  stately 
bride, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 
ii. 

The  golden  news  along  the  steppes  is 
blown, 

And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents 
are  stirr’d ; 

Elburz  and  all  the  Caucasus  have 
heard ; 

And  all  the  sultry  palms  of  India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 


The  Grandmother.  — Page  173. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


173 


The  voices  of  our  universal  sea 

On  capes  of  Afric  as  on  cliffs  of 
Kent, 

The  Maoris  and  that  Isle  of  Conti- 
nent, 

And  loyal  pines  of  Canada  murmur 
thee, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 


hi. 

Fair  empires  branching,  both,  in  lusty 
life ! — 

Yet  Harold’s  England  fell  to  Nor- 
man swords ; 

Yet  thine  own  land  has  bow’d  to 
Tartar  hordes 

Since  English  Harold  gave  its  throne 
a wife, 

Alexandrovna  ! 

For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs 
that  swing, 

And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  and 
flow ; 

But  who  love  best  have  best  the 
grace  to  know 

That  Love  by  right  divine  is  deathless 
king, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 


IV. 

And  Love  has  led  thee  to  the  stranger 
land, 


Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly 
say  their  say ; — 

See,  empire  upon  empire  smiles  to- 
day, 

As  thou  with  thy  young  lover  hand  in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 

So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  west, 

Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious 
to  thy  poor  : 

Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  nar- 
row door; 

Here  also,  Marie,  shall  thy  name  be 
blest, 

Marie  Alexandrovna ! 


Shall  fears  and  jealous  hatreds  flame 
again  'i 

Or  at  thy  coming,  Princess,  every- 
where, 

The  blue  heaven  break,  and  some 
diviner  air 

Breathe  thro’  the  world  and  change 
the  hearts  of  men, 

Alexandrovna ! 

But  hearts  that  change  not,  love  that 
cannot  cease, 

And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace  of 
soul  in  soul ! 

And  howsoever  this  wild  world  may 
roll, 

Between  your  people’s  truth  and  man- 
ful peace, 

Alfred  — Alexandrovna ! 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Anne  1 
Ruddy  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a man. 
And  Willy’s  wife  lias  written : she  never  was  over-wise, 

Never  the  wife  for  Willy  : he  wouldn’t  take  my  advice. 


For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save, 
Hadn’t  a head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty ! but  I was  against  it  for  one. 

Eh!  — but  he  wouldn’t  hear  me  — and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 


174 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


hi. 

Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  the  flower  of  the  flock; 

Never  a man  could  fling  him : for  Willy  stood  like  a rock. 

“ Here’s  a leg  for  a babe  of  a week  ! ” says  doctor ; and  he  would  be  bound, 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 


Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue ! 
I ought  to  have  gone  before  him : I wonder  he  went  so  young. 

I cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  : I have  not  long  to  stay ; 

Perhaps  I shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 


Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  ? you  think  I am  hard  and  cold; 

But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I am  so  old : 

I cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I weep  for  the  rest ; 

Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

VI. 

For  I remember  a quarrel  I had  with  your  father,  my  dear. 

All  for  a slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a tear. 

I mean  your  grandfather,  Annie : it  cost  me  a world  of  woe. 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

VII. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time  : I knew,  but  I would  not  tell. 

And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar  ! 

But  the  tongue  is  a fire  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a fire. 

VIII. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise. 
That  a lie  which  is  half  a truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies, 

That  a lie  which  is  all  a lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright, 
But  a lie  which  is  part  a truth  is  a harder  matter  to  fight. 


And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a week  and  a day; 
And  all  things  look’d  half-dead,  tho’  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been  ! 

But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one’s  self  clean. 


And  I cried  myself  well-nigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 
I climb’d  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 
The  moon  like  a rick  on  fire  was  rising  over  the  dale, 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrupt  the  nightingale. 


Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an’  fuzz,  — an’  loook  at  it  now ! ” 

Page  178. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER . 


175 


XI. 

All  of  a sudden  he  stopt : there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 

Willy,  — he  didn’t  see  me,  — and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 

Out  into  the  road  I started,  and  spoke  I scarce  knew  how ; 

Ah,  there’s  no  fool  like  the  old  one  — it  makes  me  angry  now. 

XII. 

Willy  stood  up  like  a man,  and  look’d  the  thing  that  he  meant ; 

Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a mocking  curtsey  and  went. 

And  I said,  “Let  us  part : in  a hundred  years  it’ll  all  be  the  same, 

You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name.” 

XIII. 

And  he  turn’d,  and  I saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine : 

“ Sweetheart,  I love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 

And  what  do  I care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill; 

But  marry  me  out  of  hand  : we  two  shall  be  happy  still.” 

XIV. 

“Marry  you,  Willy ! ” said  I,  “ but  I needs  must  speak  my  mind, 

And  I fear  you’ll  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind.” 

But  he  turn’d  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer’d,  “No,  love,  no ; ” 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 


So  Willy  and  I were  wedded  : I wore  a lilac  gown  ; 

And  the  ringers  rang  with  a will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a crown. 

But  the  first  that  ever  I bare  was  dead  before  he  was  born, 

Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 

XVI. 

That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I thought  of  death. 

There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn  a breath. 

I had  not  wept,  little  Anne,  not  since  I had  been  a wife  ; 

But  I wept  like  a child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 

XVII. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain : 

I look’d  at  the  still  little  body  — his  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  I cannot  weep,  I shall  see  him  another  morn : 

But  I wept  like  a child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  born. 

XVIII. 

But  he  cheer’d  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay: 

Kind,  like  a man,  was  he ; like  a man,  too,  would  have  his  way : 

Never  jealous  — not  he  : we  had  many  a happy  year ; 

And  he  died,  and  I could  not  weep  — my  own  time  seem’d  so  near. 


176 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


XIX. 

But  I wish’d  it  had  been  God’s  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have  died : 
I began  to  be  tired  a little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 

And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I don’t  forget : 

But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they’re  all  about  me  yet. 

xx. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two, 

Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you : 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 

While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  hill. 

XXI. 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I hear  them  too  — they  sing  to  their  team : 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a pleasant  kind  of  a dream. 

They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed  — 

I am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I know  for  a truth,  there’s  none  of  them  left  alive ; 

For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five : 

And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten; 

I knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they’re  elderly  men. 

XXIII. 

F6r  mine  is  a time  of  peace,  it"  is  not  often  I grieve ; 

I am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father’s  farm  at  eve  : 

And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I; 

I find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 

XXIV. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us  sad  : 

But  mine  is  a time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had ; 

And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 


XXV. 

And  age  is  a time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain, 

And  happy  has  been  my  life ; but  I would  not  live  it  again. 

I seem  to  be  tired  a little,  that’s  all,  and  long  for  rest ; 

Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

XXVI. 

So  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  my  flower; 

But  how  can  I weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour,  — 
Gone  for  a minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next ; 

I,  too,  shall  go  in  a minute.  What  time  have  I to  be  vext  ? 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


ill 


XXVII. 

And  Willy’s  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over-wise. 

Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  : thank  God  that  I keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a trifle  left  you,  when  I shall  have  past  away. 

But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now : you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 
OLD  STYLE. 


Wiieer  ’asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin’  ’ere  aloan  ? 

Noorse  ? thoort  nowt  o’  a noorse  : whoy,  Doctor’s  abean  an’  agoan  : 
Says  that  I moant  ’a  naw  moor  aale  : but  I beiint  a fool  : 

Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I beant  a-gooin’  to  break  my  rule. 

ii. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a says  what’s  nawways  true  : 

Naw  soort  o’  koind  o’  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a do. 

I’ve  ’ed  my  point  o’  aale  ivry  noight  sin’  I bean  ’ere, 

An’  I’ve  ’ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 

hi. 

Parson’s  a bean  loikewoise,  an’  a sittin’  ere  o’  my  bed. 

“ The  amoighty’s  a taakin  o’  you  to  ’issen,  my  friend,”  a said, 

An’  a towd  ma  my  sins,  an’s  toitlie  were  due,  an’  I gied  it  in  liond ; 

I done  moy  duty  boy  ’um,  as  I ’a  done  boy  the  lond. 

IV. 

Larn’d  a ma’  beii.  I reckons  I ’annot  sa  mooch  to  larn. 

But  a cast  oop,  tliot  a did,  ’boot  Bessy  Marris’s  barne. 

Thaw  a knaws  I liallus  voated  wi’  Squoire  an’  choorch  an’  staate, 

An’  i’  the  woost  o’  toimes  I wur  niver  agin  the  raiite. 

v. 

An’  I hallus  coom’d  to’s  choorch  afoor  moy  Sally  wrur  dead, 

An’  ’eerd  ’um  a bummin’  awaiiy  loike  a buzzard-clock1  ower  my  ’ead, 
An’  I niver  knaw’d  whot  a mean’d  but  I thowt  a ’ad  suramut  to  saay, 
An’  I thowt  a said  w'hot  a owt  to  ’a  said  an’  I coom’d  awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy  Marris’s  barne  ! tha  knaws  she  lailid  it  to  mea. 

Mowt  a bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a bad  un,  shea. 

’Siver,  I kep  ’um,  I kep  ’um,  my  lass,  tha  mun  understond ; 

I done  moy  duty  boy  ’um  as  I ’a  done  boy  the  lond. 


1 Cockchafer. 


178 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


VII. 

But  Parson  a cooms  an’  a goos,  an’  a says  it  easy  an’  freea 
“ The  amoighty’s  a taiikin  o’  you  to  ’issen,  my  friend,”  says  ’ea. 

I weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summum  said  it  in  ’aaste : 

But  ’e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a weeiik,  an’  I ’a  stubb’d  Thurnaby  waaste 

VIII. 

D’ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  7 naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then ; 
Theer  wur  a boggle  in  it,  I often  ’eerd  ’um  mysen ; 

Moast  loike  a butter-bump,1  fur  I ’eerd  ’um  aboot  an’  aboot, 

But  I stubb’d  ’um  oop  wi’  the  lot,  an’  raaved  an’  rembled  ’um  oot. 


IX. 

Reaper’s  it  wur  ; fo’  they  fun  ’um  theer  a-laaid  of  ’is  faace 
Boon  i’  the  woild  ’enemies  2 afoor  I coom’d  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  — toaner  ’ed  shot  ’um  as  dead  as  a naail. 
Noiiks  wur  ’ang’d  for  it  oop  at  ’soize — but  git  ma  my  aale. 


x. 

Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste : theer  warn’t  not  feead  for  a cow ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an’  fuzz,  an’  loook  at  it  now- — 

Warnt  worth  nowt  a haaere,  an’  now  theer’s  lots  o’  feead, 
Pourscoor  yows  upon  it  an’  some  on  it  doon  i’  seead. 


XI. 

Nobbut  a bit  on  it’s  left,  an’  I mean’d  to  ’a  stubb’d  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I mean’d,  an’  runn’d  plow  thruff  it  an’  all, 

If  godamoighty  an’  parson  ’ud  nobbut  let  me  aloan, 

Mea,  wi’  haate  oonderd  haaere  o’  Squoire’s  an’  lond  o’  my  oan. 


XII. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a’s  doing  a-taakin’  o’  mea7 
I beiint  wonn  as  saws  ’ere  a bean  an’  yonder  a pea ; 

An’  Squoire  ’ull  be  sa  mad  an’  all  — a’  dear  a’  dear! 

And  I ’a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michaelmas  thutty  year. 

XIII. 

A mowt  ’a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  ’ant  nor  a ’aapoth  o’  sense, 

Or  a mowt  ’a  taaen  young  Robins  — a niver  mended  a fence  : 

But  godamoighty  a moost  taake  mea  an’  taake  ma  now 
Wi’  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an’  Thurnaby  lioalms  to  plow! 

XIV. 

Loook  ’ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  seeas  ma  a passin’  boy, 

Says  to  thessen  naw  doubt  “ what  a man  a bea  sewer-1  oy ! ” 

Fur  they  knaws  what  I bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a coom’d  to  the  ’All ; 
I done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an’  I done  moy  duty  boy  hall. 


5 Bittern. 


2 Anemones. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


179 


xv. 

Squoire’s  i’  Lunnon,  an’  summun  I reckons  ’ull  ’a  to  wroite, 

For  whoa’s  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles  rna  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I bea,  thot  a weant  niver  give  it  to  Joanes, 

Naw,  nor  a moant  to  Robins  — a niver  rembles  the  stoans. 

XVI 

But  summun  ’ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi’  ’is  kittle  o’  steam 
Huzzin’  an’  maazin’  the  blessed  fealds  wi’  the  Divil’s  oan  team. 
Sin’  I mun  doy  I mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they  says  is  sweet, 

But  sin’  I mun  doy  I mun  doy,  for  I couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

XVII. 

What  atta  stannin’  theer  fur,  an’  doesn  bring  ma  the  aale  ? 
Doctor’s  a ’toattler,  lass,  an  a’s  hallus  i’  the  owd  taale ; 

I weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a knaws  naw  moor  nor  a floy  ; 
Git  ma  my  aale  I tell  tha,  an’  if  I mun  doy  I mun  doy. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 
NEW  STYLE. 


Dosn’t  thou  ’ear  my  ’erse’s  legs,  as  they  canters  awaay  1 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  — that’s  what  I ’ears  ’em  saay. 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  — Sam,  thou’s  an  ass  for  thy  paains . 
Theer’s  moor  sense  i’  one  o’  ’is  legs  nor  in  all  thy  braa'ins. 


ii. 

Woa — theer’s  a craw  to  pluck  wi’  tha,  Sam  : yon’s  parson’s  ’ouse  — 
Dosn’t  thou  knaw  that  a man  mun  be  eather  a man  or  a mouse  ? 

Time  to  think  on  it  then ; for  thou’ll  be  twenty  to  weeak.1 
Proputty,  proputty  — Avoa  then  woa  — let  ma  ’ear  mysen  speak. 

hi. 

Me  an’  thy  muther,  Sammy,  ’as  bean  a-talkin’  o’  thee ; 

Thou’s  bean  talkin’  to  muther,  an’  she  bean  a tewin’  it  me. 

Thou’ll  not  marry  for  munny  — thou’s  sweet  upo’  parson’s  lass  — 

Noa  — thou’ll  marry  for  luw  — an’  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 


IV. 

Seea’d  her  todaay  goa  by  — Saaint’s  daay — they  was  ringing  the  bells 
She’s  a beauty  thou  thinks  — an’  soa  is  scoors  o’  gells, 

Them  as  ’as  munny  an’  all — wot’s  a beauty  1 — the  flower  as  blaws. 
But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an’  proputty,  proputty  graws. 

1 This  week. 


180 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


Do’ant  be  stunt : 1 taake  time  : I knaws  what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn’t  I craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysen  when  I wur  a lad  'i 
But  I knaw’d  a Quaaker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this : 

“ Boant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa  wheer  munny  is  ! ” 

VI. 

An’  I went  wheer  munny  war : an’  thy  muther  coom  to  ’and, 

Wi’  lots  o’  munny  laa'id  by,  an’  a nicetish  bit  o’  land. 

Maaybe  she  warn’t  a beauty  — I niver  giv  it  a thowt  — 

But  warn’t  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an’  kiss  as  a lass  as  ’ant  nowt  ? 

VII. 

Parson’s  lass  ’ant  nowt,  an’  she  weant  ’a  nowt  when  ’e’s  dead, 

Mun  be  a guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  addle  2 her  bread  : 

Why  ? fur  ’e’s  nobbut  a curate,  an’  weant  niver  git  naw  ’igher ; 

An’  ’e  maade  the  bed  as  ’e  ligs  on  afoor  ’e  coom’d  to  the  shire. 

vm. 

An  thin  ’e  coom’d  to  the  parish  wi’  lots  o’  Yarsity  debt, 

Stook  to  his  taail  they  did,  an’  ’e  ’ant  got  shut  on  ’em  yet. 

An’  ’e  ligs  on  ’is  back  i’  the  grip,  wi’  noan  to  lend  ’im  a shove, 
Woorse  nor  a far-welter’d  3 yowe:  fur,  Sammy,  ’e  married  fur  luvv. 


IX. 

Luvv  ? what’s  luvv  ? thou  can  luvv  thy  lass  an’  ’er  munny  too, 
Maakin’  ’em  goa  togither  as  they’ve  good  right  to  do. 

Could’n  I luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o’  ’er  munny  laa'id  by  1 
Naay  — fur  I luvv’d  ’er  a vast  sight  moor  fur  it : reason  why. 


Ay  an’  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 

Cooms  of  a gentleman  burn : an’  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha  ? — an  ass  as  near  as  mays  nowt4  — 
Woa  then,  wiltha  ? dangtlia  ! — the  bees  is  as  fell  as  owt.5 


Break  me  a bit  o’  the  esh  for  his  ’ead,  lad,  out  o’  the  fence ! 
Gentleman  burn ! what’s  gentleman  burn  ? is  it  shillins  an’  pence  '{ 
Proputty,  proputty’s  ivrything  ’ere,  an’,  Sammy,  I’m  blest 
If  it  isn’t  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  ’as  it’s  the  best. 

XII. 

Tis’n  them  as  ’as  munny  as  breaks  into  ’ouses  an’  steals, 

Them  as  ’as  coats  to  their  backs  an’  taakes  their  regular  meals. 
Noa,  but  it’s  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a meal’s  to  be  ’ad. 

Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a loomp  is  bad. 

1 Obstinate.  2 Earn. 

3 Or  fow-welter’<f,  — said  of  a sheep  lying  on  its  back  in  the  furrow. 

4 Makes  nothing.  5 The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


THE  DAISY. 


181 


XIII. 

Thera  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  ’a  bean  a laazy  lot, 

Fur  work  mun  ’a  gone  to  the  gittin’  whiniver  munny  was  got. 
Feyther  ’ad  ammost  nowt ; leastways  ’is  munny  was  ’id. 

But  ’e  tued  an’  moil’d  ’issen  dead,  an  ’e  died  a good  un,  ’e  did. 

XIY. 

Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck  cooms  out  by  the  ’ill 
Feyther  run  oop  to  the  farm,  an’  I runs  oop  to  the  mill; 

An’  I’ll  run  oop  to  the  brig,  an’  that  thou’ll  live  to  see  ; 

And  if  thou  marries  a good  un  I’ll  leave  the  land  to  thee. 

xv. 

Thim’s  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby  I means  to  stick ; 

But  if  thou  marries  a bad  un,  I’ll  leave  the  land  to  Dick.  — 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  — that’s  what  I ’ears  ’im  saiiy  — 
Froputty,  proputty,  proputty  — canter  an’  canter  awaay 


THE  DAISY. 

WRITTEN  AT  EDINBURGH. 

O 1.0 ve,  what  hours  were  thine  and 
mine, 

In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aioe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show’d 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road  ; 

How  like  a gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow’d. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 
To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 
By  bays,  the  peacock’s  neck  in  hue  ; 
Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy 
beaches 

A milky-bell’d  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem’d  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain 
cornice, 

And  steering,  now,  from  a purple  cove, 


Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean’s  rim ; 
Till,  in  a narrow  street  and  dim, 

I stay’d  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast ; 

But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 

A moulder’d  citadel  on  the  coast, 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A light  amid  its  olives  green ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean ; 

Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flush’d  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho’  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A princely  people’s  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine 
Or  walks  in  Boboli’s  ducal  bowers. 


182 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 


In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  com- 
plete, 

Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter’d, 
Thro’  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma  ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look’d  the  Lombard  piles ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0 Milan,  0 the  chanting  quires, 

The  giant  windows’  blazon’d  fires, 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom, 
the  glory ! 

A mount  of  marble,  a hundred  spires ! 

1 climb’d  the  roofs  at  break  of  day  ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flush’d,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 
A thousand  shadowy-pencill’d  val- 
leys 

And  snowy  dells  in  a golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como  ; shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded ; and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 
The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 

As  on  The  Lariano  crept 
To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch’d  awake 
A cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 
The  moonlight  touching  o’er  a 
terrace 

One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 


What  more  ? we  took  our  last  adieu. 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew, 

But  ere  we  reach’d  the  highest 
summit 

I pluck’d  a daisy,  I gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 

And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

0 love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea; 

So  dear  a life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I found,  tlio’  crush’d  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nursling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by : 

And  I forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and 
Earth, 

The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a vacant  brain, 
Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  be- 
side me, 

My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 

JANUARY,  1854. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ. 
Godfather,  come  and  see  your  boy  : 
Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter, 
Making  the  little  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few, 

Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due, 
Should  eighty-thousand  college- 
councils 

Thunder  “ Anathema,”  friend,  at  you  ; 

Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right, 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you 
welcome 

(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of 
Wight ; 


WILL. 


183 


Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of  I 
town, 

I watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 
All  round  a careless-order’d  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a noble  down. 

You’ll  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine, . 

And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a roof  of  pine  : 

For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 

To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand  ; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a billow  on  chalk  and  sand ; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep, 

And  on  thro’  zones  of  light  and 
shadow 

Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep, 

We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a selfish  war  begin  ; 
Dispute  the  claims,  arrange  the 
chances ; 

Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win  : 

Or  whether  war’s  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood  ; 

Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer 
matters, 

Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God ; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store, 

How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances, 
Valor  and  charity  more  and  more. 

Come,  Maurice,  come : the  lawn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet ; 

But  when  the  wreath  of  March  has 
blossom’d, 

Crocus,  anemone,  violet, 

( )r  later,  pay  one  visit  here, 

For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear ; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for 
many, 

Many  and  many  a happy  year. 


WILL. 


O well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong ! 

He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long ; 

He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer 
wrong : 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world’s 
random  mock, 

Nor  all  Calamity’s  hugest  waves  con- 
found, 

Who  seems  a promontory  of  rock, 

That,  compass’d  round  with  turbulent 
sound, 

In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging 
shock, 

Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-erown’d. 
ii. 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not 
with  time, 

Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven- 
descended  Will, 

And  ever  weaker  grows  thro’  acted 
crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps 
halt, 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 

And  o’er  a weary  sultry  land, 

Far  beneath  a blazing  vault, 

Sown  in  a wrinkle  in  the  monstrous 
hill. 

The  city  sparkles  like  a grain  of  salt. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF 
CAUTERETZ. 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that 
flashest  white, 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepen- 
ing of  the  night, 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters 
flow, 

I walk’d  with  one  I loved  two  and 
thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley,  while  I walk'd 
to-day, 


184 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  SIVA  INS  TON. 


The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a mist 
that  rolls  away  ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy 
rocky  bed, 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the 
voice  of  the  dead, 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and 
cave  and  tree, 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a living 
voice  to  me. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT 
SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales  warbled  without, 
Within  was  weeping  for  thee  : 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men 
Walk’d  in  the  walks  with  me, 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men  and 
thou  wast  one  of  the  three. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods  : 

The  Master  was  far  away  : 
Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 
Of  a passion  that  lasts  but  a day ; 
Still  in  the  house  in  his  coffin  the 
Prince  of  courtesy  lay. 

Two  dead  men  have  I known 
In  courtesy  like  to  thee : 

Two  dead  men  have  I loved 
With  a love  that  ever  will  be: 
Three  dead  men  have  I loved,  and 
thou  art  last  of  the  three. 


THE  FLOWER. 

Once  in  a golden  hour 
I cast  to  earth  a seed. 

Up  there  came  a flower, 

The  people  said,  a weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro’  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a crown  of  light, 

But  thieves  from  o’er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 


Sow’d  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried, 

“ Splendid  is  the  flower.” 

Read  my  little  fable  : 

He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough, 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 
Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly, 
slowly  glides. 

It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer  she,  but  ah  how  soon  to 
die  ! 

Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour 
may  cease. 

Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 
To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o’er  the  seething  harbor-bar, 
And  reach’d  the  ship  and  caught  the 
rope, 

And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a fierce  mermaiden  cry, 
“O  boy,  tho’  thou  art  young  and 
proud, 

I see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

“ The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 
And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall 
play.” 


THE  ISLET. 


185 


“ Fool,”  he  answer’d,  “ death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that 
roam, 

But  I will  nevermore  endure 

To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

“ My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 
My  sisters  crying,  ‘ Stay  for  shame  ; ’ 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck, 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all 
to  blame. 

“ God  help  me ! save  I take  my  part 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me.” 


THE  ISLET. 

“Whither,  O whither,  love,  shall  we 
go, 

For  a score  of  sweet  little  summers  or 
so  1 ” 

The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said, 
On  the  day  that  follow’d  the  day  she 
was  wed, 

“ Whither,  O whither,  love,  shall  we 
go  ?” 

And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Turn’d  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a sudden  crash, 
Singing,  “ And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor 
rash, 

But  a bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek’d, 
In  a shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak’d, 
With  a satin  sail  of  a ruby  glow, 

To  a sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I 
know, 

A mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak’d; 
Waves  on  a diamond  shingle  dash, 
Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Fairily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 
And  overstream’d  and  silvery-streak’d 
With  many  a rivulet  high  against  the 
Sun 

The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain 
flash 

Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine.” 


“ Thither,  O thither,  love,  let  us  go.” 

“No,  no,  no! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear, 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a musical 
throat, 

And  his  compass  is  but  of  a single 
note, 

That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear.” 

“Mock  me  not!  mock  me  not!  love, 
let  us  go.” 

“ No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks,  into  bloom 
on  the  tree, 

And  a storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely 
sea, 

And  a worm  is  there  in  the  lonelj 
wood, 

That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens 
the  blood ; 

And  makes  it  a sorrow  to  be.” 


CHILD-SONGS. 


THE  CITY  CHILD. 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would 
you  wander  ? 

Whither  from  this  pretty  home,  the 
home  where  mother  dwells  ? 

“ Far  and  far  away,”  said  the  dainty 
little  maiden, 

“ All  among  the  gardens,  auriculas, 
anemones, 

Roses  and  lilies  and  Canterbury- 
bells.” 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would 
you  wander  ? 

Whither  from  this  pretty  house, 
this  city-house  of  ours  ? 

“ Far  and  far  away,”  said  the  dainty 
little  maiden, 

“ All  among  the  meadows,  the  clover 
and  the  clematis, 

Daisies  and  kingcups  and  honey 
suckle-flowers.” 


186 


MINNIE  AND  WINNIE. 


ii. 

MINNIE  AND  WINNIE. 

Minnie  and  Winnie 
Slept  in  a shell. 

Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

And  they  slept  well. 

Pink  was  the  shell  within, 
Silver  without; 

Sounds  of  the  great  sea 
Wander’d  about. 

Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

Wake  not  soon ! 

Echo  on  echo 

Dies  to  the  moon. 

Two  bright  stars 

Peep’d  into  the  shell. 

“ What  are  they  dreaming  of  ? 
Who  can  tell  7 ” 

Started  a green  linnet 
Out  of  the  croft; 

Wake,  little  ladies, 

The  sun  is  aloft ! 


THE  SPITEFUL  LETTER 

Here,  it  is  here,  the  close  of  the  year, 
And  with  it  a spiteful  letter. 

My  name  in  song  has  done  him  much 
wrong, 

For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0 little  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard, 

If  men  neglect  your  pages  1 

1 think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine, 
I hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

Rhymes  and  rhymes  in  the  range  of 
the  times ! 

Are  mine  for  the  moment  stronger? 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot, 

I last  but  a moment  longer. 

This  faded  leaf,  our  names  are  as 
brief ; 

What  room  is  left  for  a hater? 


Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener 
leaf, 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I — is  that  your  cry  ? 

And  men  will  live  to  see  it. 

Well  — if  it  be  so  — so  it  is,  you  know ; 
And  if  it  be  so,  so  be  it. 

Brief,  brief  is  a summer  leaf, 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 

O hollies  and  ivies  and  evergreens, 
How  I hate  the  spites  and  the 
follies ! 


LITERARY  SQUABBLES. 

Ah  God!  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme 
That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pigmy  wars 

Before  the  stony  face  of  Time, 

And  look’d  at  by  the  silent  stars  : 

Who  hate  each  other  for  a song, 

And  do  their  little  best  to  bite 

And  pinch  their  brethren  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite : 

And  strain  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  cannot 
hear 

The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  doom 

On  them  and  theirs  and  all  things 
here  : 

When  one  small  touch  of  Charity 
Could  lift  them  nearer  God-like  state 

Than  if  the  crowned  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  who  cried  Diana  great: 

And  I too,  talk,  and  lose  the  touch 
I talk  of.  Surely,  after  all, 

The  noblest  answer  unto  such 

Is  perfect  stillness  when  they  brawl. 


THE  VICTIM. 


A plague  upon  the  people  fell, 

A famine  after  laid  them  low, 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire, 


THE  VICTIM. 


1S7 


For  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe ; 
thick  they  died  the  people  cried, 

“ The  Gods  are  moved  against  the 
land.” 

The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a hand: 

“ Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife  ! 

What  would  you  have  of  us  ? 
Human  life  ? 

Were  it  our  nearest, 

Were  it  our  dearest, 

(Answer,  O answer) 

We  give  you  his  life.” 

ii. 

But  still  the  foemanspoil’d  and  burn’d, 
And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood, 
And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn’d 
And  whiten’d  all  the  rolling  flood  ; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way, 
Or  down  in  a furrow  scathed  with 
flame : 

And  ever  and  aye  the  Priesthood 
moan’d, 

Till  at  last  it  seem’d  that  an  answer 
came. 

“The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife  ; 

Take  you  his  dearest, 

Give  us  a life.” 


hi. 

The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still ; 

She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old, 
His  beauty  still  with  his  years  in- 
creased, 

His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold, 
He  seem’d  a victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  Priest  beheld  him, 

And  cried  with  joy, 

“ The  Gods  have  answer’d  : 

We  give  them  the  boy.” 

IV. 

The  King  return’d  from  out  the  wild, 
He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand  ; 


The  mother  said,  “They  have  taken 
the  child 

To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the 
land : 

The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased, 
And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the 
lea : 

The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased, 
So  I pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 
They  have  taken  our  son, 

They  will  have  his  life. 

Is  he  your  dearest  ? 

Or  I,  the  wife  ? ” 

v. 

The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on 
brow, 

„ He  stay’d  his  arms  upon  his  knee : 

“ 0 wife,  what  use  to  answer  now  1 
For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for 
me.” 

The  King  was  shaken  with  holy 
fear ; 

“The  Gods,”  he  said,  “would  have 
chosen  well; 

Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear, 
And  which  the  dearest  I cannot  tell !” 
But  the  Priest  was  happy, 

His  victim  won  : 

“We  have  his  dearest, 

His  only  son  ! ” 

VI. 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared, 
The  knife  uprising  toward  the 
blow 

To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

“ Me,  not  my  darling,  no  ! ” 

He  caught  her  away  with  a sudden 
cry; 

Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife, 
And  shrieking  “ I am  his  dearest,  I — 
I am  his  dearest ! ” rush’d  on  the 
knife. 

And  the  Priest  was  happy, 

“ 0,  Father  Odin, 

We  give  you  a life. 

Which  was  his  nearest  1 
Who  was  his  dearest  1 
The  Gods  have  answer’d  ; 

We  give  them  the  wife!” 


188 


WAGES. 


WAGES. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 

Paid  with  a voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an  endless  sea  — 

Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the  wrong  — 

Nay,  but  she  aim’d  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory  she : 

Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death ; if  the  wages  of  Virtue  be  dust, 

Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the  worm  and  the  fly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of  the  just, 

To  rest  in  a golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a summer  sky : 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  ;the  seas,  the  hills  and  the  plains  — 
Are  not  these,  O Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ? tho’  He  be  not  that  which  He  seems  1 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and  limb, 

Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from  Him  \ 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee:  thyself  art  the  reason  why; 

For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel  “ I am  I ” ? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee ; and  thou  fulfillest  thy  doom 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a stifled  splendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet  — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise ; O Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 

For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some  : no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool ; 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a straight  staff  bent  in  a pool ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man  cannot  see , 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision  — were  it  not  He  1 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK. 


The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  over  summit  and  lawn, 

The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn ! 


ti. 

All  night  have  I heard  the  voice 
Rave  over  the  rocky  bar, 

But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven, 
Above  thee  glided  the  star. 


A DEDICATION. 


189 


in. 

Hast  thou  no  voice,  0 Peak, 
That  standest  high  above  all  ? 
“ I am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 

I roar  and  rave  for  I fall. 


IV. 

“ A thousand  voices  go 

To  North,  South,  East,  and  West; 
They  leave  the  heights  and  are 
troubled, 

And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 


“ The  fields  are  fair  beside  them, 

The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom ; 
But  they  — they  feel  the  desire  of  the 
deep  — 

Fall,  and  follow  their  doom. 

VI. 

“ The  deep  has  power  on  the  height, 
And  the  height  has  power  on  the 
deep ; 

They  are  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 
And  sink  again  into  sleep.” 

VII. 

Not  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 

But  when  their  cycle  is  o’er, 

The  valley,  the  voice,  the  peak,  the 
star 

Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 

VIII. 

The  Peak  is  high  and  flush’d 
At  his  highest  with  sunrise  fire  ; 
The  Peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are 
high, 

And  the  thought  of  a man  is  higher. 

IX. 

A deep  below  the  deep, 

And  a height  beyond  the  height ! 
Our  hearing  is  not  hearing, 

And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 


The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  into  heaven  withdrawn, 

The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 

Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn  ! 


Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my 
hand, 

Little  flower  — but  if  I could  under- 
stand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in 
all, 

I should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


A DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near  and  true  — no  truer  Time 
himself 

Can  prove  you,  tho’  he  make  you  ever- 
more 

Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of 
life 

Shoots  to  the  fall  — take  this  and  pray 
that  he 

Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet 
faith  in  him, 

May  trust  himself;  and  after  praise 
and  scorn, 

As  one  who  feels  the  immeasurable 
world, 

Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the 
wise ; 

And  after  Autumn  past  — if  left  to 
pass 

His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless 
days  — 

Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  long- 
est night, 

Wearing  his  wisdom  lightly,  like  the 
fruit 

Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks 
a flower.1 

1 The  fruit  of  the  Spindle-tree  ( Euony '• 

mus  Europeans) . 


190 


BO  AD  ICE  A. 


EXPERIMENTS. 

BOADICEA. 

While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and  Druidess, 
Ear  in  the  East  Boadieea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 

Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce  volubility, 

Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Camulodune, 
Yell’d  and  shriek’d  between  her  daughters  o’er  a wild  confederacy. 


“ They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain’s  barbarous  populaces, 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating  ? 
Shall  I heed  them  in  their  anguish  ? shall  I brook  to  be  supplicated  ? 
Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! * 

Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle’s  beak  and  talon  annihilate  us  ? 

Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering?. 

Bark  an  answer,  Britain’s  raven ! bark  and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcase  a skeleton, 

Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolfkin,  from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 

Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten’d,  Taranis  be  propitiated. 

Lo  their  colony  half-defended!  low  their  colony,  Camulodune  ! 

There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a barbarous  adversary. 
There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a gluttonous  emperor-idiot. 

Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity  : hear  it,  Spirit  of  Cassivelaun  ! 


“ Hear  it,  Gods  ! the  Gods  have  heard  it,  0 Icenian,  0 Coritanian  ! 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer’d,  Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 

These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances. 

Thunder,  a flying  fire  in  heaven,  a murmur  heard  aerially, 

Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred, 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 

Bloodily  flow’d  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  men ; 
Then  a phantom  colony  smoulder’d  on  the  refluent  estuary  ; 

Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering  — 

There  was  one  who  watch’d  and  told  me  — down  their  statue  of  Victory  fell. 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune, 

Shall  we  teach  it  a Roman  lesson  ? shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful  ? 

Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant  ? shall  we  dandle  it  amorously  ? 


“ Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 

While  I roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating, 

There  I heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at  the  mystical  ceremony, 

Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible  prophetesses, 

‘ Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets  ! 

Tho’  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho’  the  gathering  enemy  narrow  thee, 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet ! 


BO  AD  ICE  A. 


191 


Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  he  celebrated, 

Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable, 

Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming  Paradises, 

Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God. 
So  they  chanted  : how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happier? 

So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a victory  now. 


“ Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant! 

Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liberty, 

Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash’d  and  humiliated, 

Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruffian  violators  ! 

See  they  sit,  they  Hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy ! 

Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 

Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune ! 

There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flourishing  territory, 
Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness  — 

Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 

Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian,  Trinobant, 

Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 

Like  the  leaf  in  a roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in  a hurricane  whirl’d 

Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Cunobelfne  ! 

There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay, 

Rolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 

There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted  ; there  — -there  — they  dwell  no  more 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces,  break  the  works  of  the  statuary, 
Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it  abominable, 

Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  voluptuousness, 

Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lash’d  and  humiliated, 

Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  out. 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample  them  under  us.” 


So  the  Queen  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 

Brandishing  in  her  hand  a dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-like, 

Yell’d  and  shriek’d  between  her  daughters  in  her  fierce  volubility. 

Till  her  people  all  around  the  royal  chariot  agitated, 

Madly  dash’d  the  darts  together,  writhing  barbarous  lineaments, 

Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  they  shiver  in  January, 
Roar’d  as  when  the  roaring  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  precipices 
Yell’d  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a promontory. 

So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 

Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat  with  rapid  unanimous  hand, 

Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all  her  pitiless  avarice, 

Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and  flutter  tremulously, 

Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  fainted  away. 

Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 

Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 

Perish’d  many  a maid  and  matron,  many  a valorous  legionary, 

Fell  the  colony,  city,  and  citadel,  London,  Verulam,  Camulodune. 


192 


TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD. 


IN  QUANTITY. 

ON  TRANSLATIONS  OF  HOMER 
Hexameters  and  Pentameters. 

These  lame  hexameters  the  strong-wing’d  music  of  Homer ! 

No  — but  a most  burlesque  barbarous  experiment. 

When  was  a harsher  sound  ever  heard,  ye  Muses,  in  England  ? 

When  did  a frog  coarser  croak  upon  our  Helicon  ? 
Hexameters  no  worse  than  daring  Germany  gave  us, 
Barbarous  experiment,  barbarous  hexameters. 


MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

O mighty-mouth’d  inventor  of  har- 
monies, 

O skill’d  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 

God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a name  to  resound  for 
ages ; 

Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr’d  from  Jehovah’s  gorgeous  ar- 
mories, 

Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  on- 
set— 

Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmur- 
ing, 

And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o’er  a rich  ambrosial  ocean 
isle, 

And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm- 
woods 

Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of 
even. 

Hendecasyllabics. 

O you  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers, 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers, 
Look,  I come  to  the  test,  a tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  a metre  of  Catullus 
All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly 
bears  him, 

Lest  I fall  unawares  before  the  people, 


Waking  laughter  in  indolent  re- 
viewers. 

Should  I flounder  awhile  without  a 
tumble 

Thro’  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 

They  should  speak  to  me  not  without 
a welcome, 

All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 

Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to 
tumble, 

So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 

Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor 
believe  me 

Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers, 

O blatant  Magazines,  regard  me 
rather — 

Since  I blush  to  belaud  myself  a mo- 
ment— 

As  some  rare  little  rose,  a piece  of  in- 
most 

Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 

Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A TRANSLA- 
TION OF  THE  ILIAD  IN 
BLANK  VERSE. 

So  Hector  spake ; the  Trojans  roar’d 
applause ; 

Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses 
from  the  yoke, 

And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his 
own ; 

And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly 
sheep 


THE  WINDOW ; 


193 


In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted 
wine 

And  bread  from  out  the  houses 
brought,  and  heap’d 

Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off 
the  plain 

Roll’d  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the 
heaven. 

And  these  all  night  upon  the  bridge1 
of  war 

Sat  glorying ; many  a fire  before  them 
blazed : 

As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the 
moon 

Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are 
laid, 

And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jut- 
ting peak 

1 Or  ridge. 


And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable 
heavens 

Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all 
the  stars 

Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in 
his  heart : 

So  many  a fire  between  the  ships  and 
stream 

Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers 
of  Troy, 

A thousand  on  the  plain ; and  close 
by  each 

Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning 
fire ; 

And  eating  hoary  grain  and  pulse  the 
steeds, 

Eixt  by  their  cars,  waited  the  golden 
dawn.  Iliad  vm.  542-561. 


THE  WINDOW; 

OR,  THE  SONG  OF  THE  WRENS. 

Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a little  song-cycle,  German  fashion,  for 
him  to  exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  songs  as  “ Or- 
pheus with  his  lute,”  and  I drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the  old  style,  a puppet,  whose  almost 
only  merit  is,  perhaps,  that  it  can  dance  to  Mr.  Sullivan’s  instrument.  I am  sorry  that  my 
four-year-old  puppet  should  have  to  dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days;  but  the 
music  is  now  completed,  and  I am  bound  by  my  promise. 

December,  1870.  A.  Tennyson. 


THE  WINDOW. 


ON  THE  HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly  ! 

Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down 
on  the  plain. 

A jewel,  a jewel  dear  to  a lover’s 
eye! 

Oh  is  it  the  brook,  or  a pool,  or  her 
window  pane, 

When  the  winds  are  up  in  the 
morning  ? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above, 

And  winds  and  lights  and  shadows 
that  cannot  be  still, 

All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home 
of  my  love, 

You  are  all  running  on,  and  I stand 
on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 

And  the  w inds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing ! 


Follow,  follow  the  chase! 

And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as 
quick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 

0 lights,  are  you  flying  over  her 
sweet  little  face  1 

And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  are 
come,  and  gone, 

When  the  winds  are  up  in  the 
morning ! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope  ! 

And  I follow  them  down  to  the  window- 
pane  of  my  dear, 

And  it  brightens  and  darkens  and 
brightens  like  my  hope, 

And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and 
darkens  like  my  fear, 

And  the  winds  are  up  in  the 
morning. 


194 


THE  WINDOW. 


AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 

Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine ! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 

Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss ; and  make  her  a bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a flower, 
Drop  me  a flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine. 

Cannot  a flower,  a flower,  be  mine  1 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 

Drop  me  a flower,  a flower,  to  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss  — and  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a flower,  a flower, 
Dropt,  a flower. 

GONE. 

Gone ! 

Gone,  till  the  end  of  the  year, 

Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her,  and 
left  me  in  shadow  here ! 

Gone  — flitted  away, 
Taken  the  stars  from  the  night  and 
the  sun  from  the  day  ! 

Gone,  and  a cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a 
storm  in  the  air ! 

Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted 
I know  not  where  ! 

Down  in  the  south  is  a flash  and  a 
groan : she  is  there ! she  is 
there ! 

WINTER. 

The  frost  is  here, 

And  fuel  is  dear, 

And  woods  are  sear, 

And  fires  burn  clear, 

And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going 
year. 

Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 
The  blue  wood-louse,  and  the  plump 
dormouse, 

And  the  bees  are  still’d,  and  the  flies 
are  kill’d, 

And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the 
house, 

But  not  into  mine. 


Bite,  frost,  bite! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer, 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer, 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer, 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the 
earth, 

But  not  into  mine. 

SPRING. 

Birds’  love  and  birds’  song 
Flying  here  and  there, 

Birds’  song  and  birds’  love, 

And  you  with  gold  for  hair! 

Birds’  song  and  birds’  love, 

Passing  with  the  weather, 

Men’s  song  and  men’s  love, 

To  love  once  and  for  ever. 

Men’s  love  and  birds’  love, 

And  women’s  love  and  men’s ! 

And  you  my  wren  with  a crown  of 
gold, 

You  my  queen  of  the  wrens ! 

You  the  queen  of  the  wrens  — 

We’ll  be  birds  of  a feather, 

I’ll  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the 
wrens, 

And  all  in  a nest  together. 

THE  LETTER. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet, 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy  ? 
Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet  — 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I write  to  her  ? shall  I go  ? 

Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by  ? 
Somebody  said  that  she’d  say  no ; 
Somebody  knowrs  that  she’ll  say  ay  l 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask’d  to  her  face  ? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy  'l 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace, 

Fly ; 

Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below  — 
Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye  : 
Somebody  said  that  she’d  say  no ; 
Somebody  knows  that  she’ll  say  ay  ! 

NO  ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and 
the  rain ! 


THE  WINDOW. 


195 


Is  it  ay  or  no  ? is  it  ay  or  no  1 
And  never  a glimpse  of  her  window 
pane ! 

And  I may  die  but  the  grass  will 
grow, 

And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I am 
gone, 

And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world 
will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres, 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm, 
Ay  is  life  for  a hundred  years, 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm, 
And  when  I am  there  and  dead  and 
gone, 

The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will 
go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and 
the  wet ! 

Wet  west  wind  how  you  blow,  you 
blow ! 

And  never  a line  from  my  lady  yet ! 

Is  it  ay  or  no  ? is  it  ay  or  no  1 
Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I am  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may 
go  on. 

NO  ANSWER. 

Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb, 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come, 
Love  will  come  but  once  a life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass  ! 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass  : 
Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again  : 

Love  me  now,  you’ll  love  me  then  : 
Love  can  love  but  once  a life. 

THE  ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 

Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet ! 

Must  I take  you  and  break  you, 

Two  little  hands  that  meet  1 
I must  take  you,  and  break  you, 

And  loving  hands  must  part  — 

Take,  take  — break,  break  — 

Break  — you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won  — 

Break,  break,  and  all’s  done. 


AY. 

Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day, 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never 
were  merry  before, 

Be  merry  in  heaven,  O larks,  and  far 
away, 

And  merry  for  ever  and  ever,  and 
one  day  more. 

Why  ? 

For  it’s  easy  to  find  a rhyme. 

Look,  look,  how  he  flits, 

The  fire-crown’d  king  of  the  wrens, 
from  out  of  the  pine  ! 

Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom, 
the  mad  little  tits ! 

“ Cuck-oo ! Cuck-oo  ! ” was  ever  a 
May  so  fine  ? 

Why  ? 

For  it’s  easy  to  find  a rhyme. 

O merry  the  linnet  and  dove, 

And  swallow  and  sparrow  and 
throstle,  and  have  your  desire  ! 

O merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten 
the  wings  of  love, 

And.  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens 
with  a crown  of  fire. 

Why  ? 

For  its  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 


WHEN. 

Sun  comes,  moon  comes. 

Time  slips  away. 

Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 

Love,  fix  a day. 

“ A year  hence,  a year  hence.” 

“ We  shall  both  be  gray.” 

“ A month  hence,  a month  hence.” 
“ Far,  far  away.” 

“ A week  hence,  a week  hence.” 

“ Ah,  the  long  delay.” 

“ Wait  a little,  wait  a little, 

You  shall  fix  a day.” 

“To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 

And  that’s  an  age  away.” 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 

And  honor  all  the  day. 


196 


THE  WINDOW. 


MARRIAGE  MORNING. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth, 

You  send  a flash  to  the  sun. 

Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love, 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 

Oh,  the  woods  and  the  meadows, 
Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to  be  kind, 
Meadows  in  which  we  met ! 

Light,  so  low  in  the  vale 
You  flash  and  lighten  afar, 

For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love, 


And  you  are  his  morning  star. 
Flash,  I am  coming,  I come, 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood, 

Oh,  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart, 
Into  my  heart  and  my  blood ! 

Heart,  are  you  great  enough 
For  a love  that  never  tires  7 
0 heart,  are  yougreatenoughfor  love  1 
I have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers, 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 

Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 
Flash  for  a million  miles. 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KLSTG. 


DEDICATION. 

These  to  His  Memory  — since  he  held 
them  dear, 

Perchance  as  finding  there  uncon- 
sciously 

Some  image  of  himself  — I dedicate, 

I dedicate,  I consecrate  with  tears  — 

These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 

Scarce  other  than  my  king’s  ideal 
knight, 

“ Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as 
his  king; 

Whose  glory  was,  redressing  human 
wrong ; 

Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen’d 
to  it ; 

Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to 
her  — ” 

Her  — over  all  whose  realms  to  their 
last  isle, 

Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  im- 
minent war, 

The  shadow  of  His  loss  drew  like 
eclipse, 

Darkening  the  world.  We  have  lost 
him  : he  is  gone  : 

We  know  him  now:  all  narrow  jeal- 
ousies 

Are  silent;  and  we  see  him  as  he 
moved, 

How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish’d, 
wise, 

With  what  sublime  repression  of  him- 
self, 

Apd  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly ; 


Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 

Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 
perch 

Of  wing’d  ambitions,  nor  a vantage- 
ground 

For  pleasure  , but  thro’  all  this  tract 
of  years 

Wearing  the  white  floAver  of  a blame- 
less life, 

Before  a thousand  peering  littlenesses, 

In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon 
a throne, 

And  blackens  every  blot : for  where 
is  he, 

Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 

A lovelier  life,  a more  unstain’d,  than 
his  ? 

Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of 
his  sons 

Hope  more  for  these  than  some  in- 
heritance 

Of  such  a life,  a heart,  a mind  as  thine, 

Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 

Laborious  for  her  people  and  her 
poor  — 

Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler 
day — 

Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and 
Waste 

To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of 
peace  — 

Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious 
gleam 

Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 

Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a Prince 
indeed, 

Beyond  all  titles,  and  a household 
name, 


198 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Hereafter,  thro’  all  times,  Albert  the 
Good. 

Break  not,  0 woman’s-heart,  but 
still  endure ; 

Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but 
endure, 

Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that 
star 

Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee  that 
ye  made 

One  light  together,  but  has  past  and 
leaves 

The  Crown  a lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love, 

His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o’ershadow 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort 
Thee, 

Till  God’s  love  set  Thee  at  his  side 
again  ! 

THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 

Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other 
child ; 

And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on 
earth, 

Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For  many  a petty  king  ere  Arthur 
came 

Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging 
war 

Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land; 

And  still  from  time  to  time  the 
heathen  host 

Swarm’d  overseas,  and  harried  what 
was  left. 

And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wil- 
derness, 

Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 
more, 

But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur 
came. 


For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought 
and  died, 

And  after  him  King  Utlier  fought  and 
died, 

But  either  fail’d  to  make  the  kingdom 
one. 

And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a 
space, 

And  thro’  the  puissance  of  his  Table 
Round, 

Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under 
him, 

Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a realm, 
and  reign’d. 


And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard 
was  waste, 

Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a 
beast  therein, 

And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the 
beast ; 

So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar 
and  bear 

Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in 
the  fields, 

And  wallow’d  in  the  gardens  of  the 
King. 

And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would 
steal 

The  children  and  devour,  but  nowand 
then, 

Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her 
fierce  teat 

To  human  sucklings ; and  the  children, 
housed 

In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat 
would  growl, 

And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  four 
feet. 

Till,  straighten’d,  they  grew  up  to 
wolf-like  men, 

Worse  than  the  wolves.  And  King 
Leodogran 

Groan’d  for  the  Roman  legions  here 
again, 

And  Caesar’s  eagle : then  his  brother 
king, 

Urien,  assail’d  him : last  a heathen 
horde, 

Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and 
earth  with  blood, 


“and  Guinevere 

Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him  pass.” 

Page  199. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


199 


And  on  the  spike  that  split  the 
mother’s  heart 

Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till, 
amazed, 

He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn 
for  aid. 

But  — for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 
crown’d, 

Tho’  not  without  an  uproar  made  by 
those 

Who  cried,  “ He  is  not  Uther’s  son  ” 
— the  King 

Sent  to  him,  saying,  “ Arise,  and  help 
us  thou  ! 

For  here  between  the  man  and  beast 
we  die.” 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed 
of  arms, 

But  'heard  the  call,  and  came : and 
Guinevere 

Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him 
pass  ; 

But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or 
shield 

The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 

But  rode  a simple  knight  among  his 
knights, 

And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms 
than  he, 

She  saw  him  not,  or  mark’d  not,  if  she 
saw, 

One  among  many,  tho’  his  face  was 
bare. 

But  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he 
past, 

Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 

Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 
pitch’d 

His  tents  beside  the  forest.  Then  he 
drave 

The  heathen ; after,  slew  the  beast, 
and  fell’d 

The  forest,  letting  in  the  sun,  and 
made 

Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and 
the  knight 

And  so  return’d. 

For  while  he  linger’d  there, 

A doubt  that  ever  smoulder’d  in  the 
hearts 


Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of 
his  realm 

Flash’d  forth  and  into  war  : for  most 
of  these, 

Colleaguing  with  a score  of  petty 
kings, 

Made  head  against  him,  crying,  “ Who 
is  he 

That  he  should  rule  us  7 who  hath 
proven  him 

King  Uther’s  son  7 for  lo  ! we  look  at 
him, 

And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs 
nor  voice, 

Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we 
knew. 

This  is  the  son  of  Gorlo'is,  not  the 
King ; 

This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the 
King.” 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to 
battle,  felt 

Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the 
life, 

Desiring  to  be  join’d  with  Guinevere; 

And  thinking  as  he  rode,  “ Her  father 
said 

That  there  between  the  man  and  beast 
they  die. 

Shall  I not  lift  her  from  this  land  of 
beasts 

Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side 
with  me  7 

What  happiness  to  reign  a lonely 
king, 

Vext — O ye  stars  that  shudder  over 
me, 

0 earth  that  soundest  hollow  tinder 

me, 

Vext  with  waste  dreams  7 for  saving 
I be  join’d 

To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1 seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world. 

And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work 

Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 
realm 

Victor  and  lord.  But  were  I join’d 
with  her, 

Then  might  we  live  together  as  one 
life. 


200 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


And  reigning  with  one  will  in  every- 
thing 

Have  power  in  this  dark  land  to 
lighten  it, 

And  power  on  this  dead  world  to 
make  it  live.” 

Thereafter  — as  he  speaks  who  tells 
the  tale  — 

When  Arthur  reach’d  a field-of-battle 
bright 

With  pitch’d  pavilions  of  his  foe,  the 
world 

Was  all  so  clear  about  him,  that  he 
saw 

The  smallest  rock  far  on  the  faintest 
hill, 

And  even  in  high  day  the  morning 
star. 

So  when  the  King  had  set  his  banner 
broad, 

At  once  from  either  side,  with  trumpet- 
blast, 

And  shouts,  and  clarions  shrilling  unto 
blood, 

The  long-lanced  battle  let  their  horses 
run. 

And  now  the  Barons  and  the  kings 
prevail’d, 

And  now  the  King,  as  here  and  there 
that  war 

Went  swaying;  but  the  Powers  who 
walk  the  world 

Made  lightnings  and  great  thunders 
over  him, 

And  dazed  all  eyes,  till  Arthur  by 
main  might, 

And  mightier  of  his  hands  with  every 
blow, 

And  leading  all  his  knighthood  threw 
the  kings 

Carados,  Urien,  Cradlemont  of  Wales, 

Claudias,  and  Clariance  of  Northum- 
berland, 

The  King  Brandagoras  of  Latangor, 

With  Anguisant  of  Erin,  Morganore, 

And  Lot  of  Orkney.  Then,  before  a 
voice 

As  dreadful  as  the  shout  of  one  who 
sees 

To  one  who  sins,  and  deems  himself 
alone 


And  all  the  world  asleep,  they  swerved 
and  brake 

Flying,  and  Arthur  call’d  to  stay  the 
brands 

That  hack’d  among  the  flyers,  “ Ho ! 
they  yield ! ” 

So  like  a painted  battle  the  war  stood 

Silenced,  the  living  quiet  as  the  dead, 

And  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  joy  was 
lord. 

He  laugh’d  upon  his  warrior  whom 
he  loved 

And  honor’d  most.  “ Thou  dost  not 
doubt  me  King, 

So  well  thine  arm  hath  wrought  for 
me  to-day.” 

“ Sir  and  my  liege,”  he  cried,  “ the 
fire  of  God 

Descends  upon  thee  in  the  battle-field  : 

I know  thee  for  my  King ! ” Whereat 
the  two, 

For  each  had  warded  either  in  the 
fight, 

Sware  on  the  field  of  death  a deathless 
love. 

And  Arthur  skid,  “ Man’s  word  is  God 
in  man  : 

Let  chance  what  will,  I trust  thee  to 
the  death.” 

Then  quickly  from  the  foughten 
field  he  sent 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 

His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leo- 
dogran, 

Saying,  “ If  I in  aught  have  served 
thee  well, 

Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to 
wife.” 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran 
in  heart 

Debating  — “ How  should  I that  am  a 
king, 

However  much  he  holp  me  at  my 
need, 

Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a 
king, 

And  a king’s  son  ? ” — lifted  his  voice, 
and  call’d 

A hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  to 
whom 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


201 


He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him 
required 

His  counsel : “ Knowest  thou  aught  of 
Arthur’s  birth  ? ” 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain 
and  said, 

“ Sir  King,  there  he  but  two  old  men 
that  know : 

And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ; and  one 

Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever 
served 

King  Uther  thro’  his  magic  art ; and 
one 

Is  Merlin’s  master  (so  they  call  him) 
Bleys, 

Who  taught  him  magic ; but  the 
scholar  ran 

Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that 
Bleys 

Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 
wrote 

All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 

In  one  great  annal-book,  where  after 
years 

Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arthur’s 
birth.” 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran 
replied, 

“ O friend,  had  I been  holpen  half  as 
well 

By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to- 
day, 

Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their 
share  of  me: 

But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once 
more 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere.” 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him, 
the  King  said, 

“ I have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by 
lesser  fowl, 

And  reason  in  the  chase  : but  where- 
fore now 

Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat 
of  war, 

Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlo'is, 

Others  of  Anton  “?  Tell  me,  ye  your- 
selves, 


Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uther’s 
son  1 ” 


And  Ulfius  and  Brastius  answer’d, 
“ Ay.” 

Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his 
knights 

Knighted  by  Arthur  at  his  crowning, 
spake  — 

For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word 
was  he, 

Whenever  slander  breathed  against 
the  King  — 

“ Sir,  there  be  many  rumors  on  this 
head : 

For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in 
their  hearts, 

Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways 
are  sweet. 

And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less 
than  man : 

And  there  be  those  who  deem  him 
more  than  man, 

And  dream  he  dropt  from  heaven  : but 
my  belief 

I In  all  this  matter  — so  ye  care  to 
learn  — 

Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther’s 
time 

The  prince  and  warrior  Gorlo'is,  he 
that  held 

Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea, 

Was  wedded  with  a winsome  wife, 
Ygerne : 

And  daughters  had  she  borne  him,  — 
one  whereof, 

Lot’s  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney, 
Bellicent, 

Hath  ever  like  a loyal  sister  cleaved 

To  Arthur, — but  a son  she  had  not 
borne. 

And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  : 

But  she,  a stainless  wife  to  Gorlo'is, 

So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his 
love, 

That  Gorlo'is  and  King  Uther  went  to 
war  : 

And  overthrown  was  Gorlo'is  and  slain. 

Then  Uther  in  his  wrath  and  heat 
besieged 


202 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Ygerne  within  Tintagil,  where  her 
men, 

Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their 
walls, 

Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter’d 
in, 

And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  him- 
self. 

So,  compass’d  by  the  power  of  the 
King, 

Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her 
tears, 

And  with  a shameful  swiftness  : after- 
ward, 

Not  many  moons,  King  Uther  died 
himself, 

Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to 
rule 

After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to 
wrrack. 

And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the 
new  year, 

By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 

That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his 
time 

Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as 
born 

Deliver’d  at  a secret  postern-gate 

To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 

Until  his  hour  should  come  ; because 
the  lords 

Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of 
this, 

Wild  beasts,  and  surely  would  have 
torn  the  child 

Piecemeal  among  them,  had  they 
known ; for  each 

But  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self 
and  hand, 

And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 

Of  Gorlois.  Wherefore  Merlin  took 
the  child, 

And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old 
knight 

And  ancient  friend  of  Uther  ; and  his 
wife 

Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear’d 
him  with  her  own  ; 

And  no  man  knew.  And  ever  since 
the  lords 

Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among 
themselves, 


So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack  : 
but  now, 

This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour 
had  come) 

Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in 
the  hall, 

Proclaiming,  ‘ Here  is  Uther’s  heir, 
your  king,’ 

A hundred  voices  cried,  ‘Away  with 
him ! 

No  king  of  ours ! a son  of  Gorlois 
he, 

Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no 
king, 

Or  else  baseborn.’  Yet  Merlin  thro’ 
his  craft, 

And  while  the  people  clamor’d  for  a 
king, 

Had  Arthur  crown’d;  but  after,  the 
great  lords 

Banded,  and  so  brake  out  in  open 
war.” 

Then  while  the  King  debated  with 
himself 

If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shameful- 
ness, 

Or  born  the  son  of  Gorlois,  after 
death, 

Or  Uther’s  son,  and  born  before  his 
time, 

Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  any- 
thing 

Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to 
Cameliard, 

With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her 
two  sons, 

Lot’s  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney, 
Bellicent ; 

Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would, 
the  King 

Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at 
meat, 

“A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  sum- 
mer seas. 

Ye  come  from  Arthur’s  court.  Victor 
his  men 

Report  him ! Y ea,  but  ye  — think  ye 
this  king  — 

So  many  those  that  hate  him,  and  so 
strong, 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


203 


So  few  his  knights,  however  brave 
they  be — 

Hath  body  enow  to  hold  his  foemen 
down  ? ” 

“ O King,”  she  cried,  “ and  I will 
tell  thee : few, 

Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind 
with  him ; 

For  I was  near  him  when  the  savage 
yells 

Of  Uther’s  peerage  died,  and  Arthur 
sat 

Crown’d  on  the  dais,  and  his  warriors 
cried, 

‘ Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work 
thy  will 

Who  love  thee.’  Then  the  King  in 
low  deep  tones, 

And  simple  words  of  great  authority, 

Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his 
own  self, 

That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from 
kneeling,  some 

Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a ghost, 

Some  flush’d,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 
who  wakes 

Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a light. 

“ But  when  he  spake  and  cheer’d 
his  Table  Round 

With  large  divine  and  comfortable 
words 

Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee  — I 
beheld 

From  eye  to  eye  thro’  all  their  Order 
flash 

A momentary  likeness  of  the  King : 

And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro’  the 
cross 

And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 

Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur, 
smote 

Flam&:Color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three 
rays, 

One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair 
queens, 

Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne, 
the  friends 

Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with 
bright 


Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his 
need. 

“And  there  I saw  mage  Merlin, 
whose  vast  wit 

And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the 
hands 

Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

“ And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake, 

Who  knows  a subtler  magic  than  his 
own  — 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 

She  gave  the  King  his  huge  cross- 
hilted  sword, 

Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out : a 
mist 

Of  incense  curl’d  about  her,  and  her 
face 

Wellnigh  was  hidden  in  the  minster 
gloom ; 

But  there  was  heard  among  the  holy 
hymns 

A voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 

Down  in  a deep,  calm,  whatsoever 
storms 

May  shake  the  world,  and  when  the 
surface  rolls, 

Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like 
our  Lord. 

“ There  likewise  I beheld  Excalibur 

Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne,  the 
sword 

That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 
lake, 

And  Arthur  row’d  across  and  took  it 
— rich 

With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt, 

Bewildering  heart  and  eye — the  blade 
so  bright 

That  men  are  blinded  by  it  — on  one 
side, 

Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 
world, 

‘ Take  me,’  but  turn  the  blade  and  ye 
shall  see, 

And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak 
yourself, 


204 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


‘ Cast  me  away ! ’ And  sad  was 
Arthur’s  face 

Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell’d 
him, 

‘ Take  thou  and  strike ! the  time  to 
cast  away 

Is  yet  far-off.’  So  this  great  brand 
the  king 

Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen 
down.” 

Thereat  Leodogram  rejoiced,  but 
thought 

To  sift  his  doubtings  to  the  last,  and 
ask’d, 

Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her 
face, 

“ The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near 
akin, 

But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 

Being  his  own  dear  sister ; ” and  she 
said, 

“ Daughter  of  Gorlois  and  Ygerne  am 
I;” 

“ And  therefore  Arthur’s  sister  ? ” 
ask’d  the  King. 

She  answer’d,  “These  be  secret  things,” 
and  sign’d 

To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let 
them  be. 

And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into 
song 

Sprang  out,  and  follow’d  by  his  flying 
hair 

Ran  like  a colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he 
saw : 

But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the 
doors, 

And  there  half-heard ; the  same  that 
afterward 

Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking 
found  his  doom. 


And  then  the  Queen  made  answer, 
“ What  know  1 1 

For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and 
hair, 

And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I ; and 
dark 

Was  Gorlois,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther 
too, 


Wellnigh  to  blackness  ; but  this  King 
is  fair 

Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 

Moreover,  always  in  my  mind  I hear 

A cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 

A mother  weeping,  and  I hear  her  say, 

‘0  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty 
one, 

To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of 
the  world.’” 

“ Ay,”  said  the  King,  “ and  hear  jre 
such  a cry  ? 

But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon 
thee  first  ? ” 


“ O King!”  she  cried,  “and  I will 
tell  thee  true : 

He  found  me  first  when  yet  a little 
maid  : 

Beaten  I had  been  for  a little  fault 

Whereof  I was  not  guilty ; and  out  I 
ran 

And  flung  myself  down  on  a bank  of 
heath, 

And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all 
therein, 

And  wept,  and  wish’d  that  I were 
dead ; and  he  — 

I know  not  whether  of  himself  he 
came, 

Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say, 
can  walk 

Unseen  at  pleasure  — he  was  at  my 
side 

And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted 
my  heart, 

And  dried  my  tears,  being  a child  with 
me. 

And  many  a time  he  came,  and  ever- 
more 

As  I grew  greater  grew  with  me ; and 
sad 

At  times  he  seem’d,  and  sad  with  him 
was  I, 

Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I loved 
him  not, 

But  sweet  again,  and  then  I loved  him 
well. 

And  now  of  late  I see  him  less  and 
less, 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


205 


But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours 
for  me, 

For  then  I surely  thought  he  would 
be  king 

“ But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another 
tale  : 

For  Bleys,  our  Merlin’s  master,  as 
they  say, 

Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to 
me, 

To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his 
life. 

Shrunk  like  a fairy  changeling  lay 
the  mage ; 

And  when  I enter’d  told  me  that  him- 
self 

And  Merlin  ever  served  about  the 
King, 

Uther,  before  he  died;  and  on  the 
night 

When  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 

Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the 
two 

Left  the  still  King,  and  passing  forth 
to  breathe, 

Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the 
chasm 

Descending  thro’  the  dismal  night  — 
a night 

In  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and 
earth  were  lost  — 

Beheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary 
deeps 

It  seem’d  in  heaven,  a ship,  the  shape 
thereof 

A dragon  wing’d,  and  all  from  stem 
to  stern 

Bright  with  a shining  people  on  the 
decks, 

And  gone  as  soon  as  seen.  And  then 
the  two 

Dropt  to  the  cove,  and  watch’d  the 
great  sea  fall, 

Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than 
the  last, 

Till  last,  a ninth  one,  gathering  half 
the  deep 

And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and 
plunged 

Roaring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a 
flame : 


And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame 
was  borne 

A naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin’s 
feet, 

Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and 
cried  ‘The  King! 

Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther!  ’ And  the 
fringe 

Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up 
the  strand, 

Lash’d  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the 
word, 

And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in 
fire, 

So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed 
in  fire. 

And  presently  thereafter  follow’d 
calm, 

Free  sky  and  stars  : ‘ And  this  same 
child,’  he  said, 

‘ Is  he  who  reigns ; nor  could  I part 
in  peace 

Till  this  were  told.’  And  saying  this 
the  seer 

Went  thro’  the  strait  and  dreadful 
pass  of  death, 

Not  ever  to  be  question’d  any  more 

Save  on  the  further  side ; but  when  I 
met 

Merlin,  and  ask’d  him  if  these  things 
were  truth  — 

The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked 
child 

Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas  — 

He  laugh’d  as  is  his  wont,  and  an- 
swer’d me 

In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and 
said : 

“ ‘ Rain,  rain,  and  sun  ! a rainbow 
in  the  sky ! 

A young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by  ; 

An  old  man’s  wit  may  wander  ere  he 
die. 

Rain,  rain,  and  sun ! a rainbow  on 
the  lea ! 

And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to 
thee; 

And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it 
be. 

Rain,  sun,  and  rain ! and  the  free 
blossom  blows : 


206 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Sun,  rain,  and  sun ! and  where  is  he 
who  knows  ? 

From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 
he  goes/ 

“ So  Merlin  riddling  anger’d  me ; 
but  thou 

Fear  not  to  give  this  King  thine  only 
child, 

Guinevere : so  great  bards  of  him  will 
sing 

Hereafter ; and  dark  sayings  from  of 
old 

Ranging  and  ringing  thro’  the  minds 
of  men, 

And  echo’d  by  old  folk  beside  their 
fires 

For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is 
done, 

Speak  of  the  King ; and  Merlin  in  our 
time 

Hath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and 
sworn 

Tho’  men  may  wound  him  that  he  will 
not  die, 

But  pass,  again  to  come  ; and  then  or 
now 

Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot, 

Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for 
their  king.” 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran 
rejoiced, 

But  musing  “ Shall  I answer  yea  or 
nay  ? ” 

Doubted,  and  drowsed,  nodded  and 
slept,  and  saw, 

Dreaming,  a slope  of  land  that  ever 
grew, 

Field  after  field,  up  to  a height,  the 
peak 

Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a phantom 
king, 

Now  looming,  and  now  lost;  and  on 
the  slope 

The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd 
was  driven, 

Fire  glimpsed  ; and  all  the  land  from 
roof  and  rick, 

In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a rolling 
wind. 


Stream’d  to  the  peak,  and  mingled 
with  the  haze 

And  made  it  thicker;  while  the  phan- 
tom king 

Sent  out  at  times  a voice ; and  here 
or  there 

Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the 
voice,  the  rest 

Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  “ No  king 
of  ours, 

No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours  ; ” 

Till  with  a wink  his  dream  was 
changed,  the  haze 

Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  be- 
came 

As  nothing,  but  the  King  stood  out 
in  heaven, 

Crown’d.  And  Leodogran  awoke,  and 
sent 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias  and  Bedivere, 

Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answer- 
ing yea. 

Then  Arthur  charged  his  warrior 
whom  he  loved 

And  honor’d  most,  Sir  Lancelot,  to 
ride  forth 

And  bring  the  Queen  ; — and  watch’d 
him  from  the  gates  : 

And  Lancelot  past  away  among  the 
flowers, 

(For  then  was  latter  April)  and 
return’d 

Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  with 
Guinevere. 

To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high 
saint, 

Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and 
before 

The  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  the 
King 

That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stain- 
less white, 

The  fair  beginners  of  a nobler  time, 

And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him, 
his  knights 

Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his 

joy- 

Far  shone  the  fields  of  May  thro’ 
open  door, 

The  sacred  altar  blossom’d  white  with 
May, 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR . 


207 


The  Sun  of  May  descended  on  their 
King, 

They  gazed  on  all  earth’s  beauty  in 
their  Queen, 

Roll’d  incense,  and  there  past  along 
the  hymns 

A voice  as  of  the  waters,  while  the  two 

Sware  at  the  shrine  of  Christ  a death- 
less love : 

And  Arthur  said,  “ Behold,  thy  doom 
is  mine. 

Let  chance  what  will,  I love  thee  to 
the  death ! ” 

To  whom  the  Queen  replied  with 
drooping  eyes, 

“ King  and  my  lord,  I love  thee  to  the 
death ! ” 

And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands 
and  spake, 

“ Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and 
make  the  world 

Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one 
with  thee, 

And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table 
Round 

Fulfil  the  boundless  purpose  of  their 
King ! ” 

So  Dubric  said ; but  when  they  left 
the  shrine 

Great  Lords  from  Rome  before  the 
portal  stood, 

In  scornful  stillness  gazing  as  they 
past ; 

Then  while  they  paced  a city  all  on 
fire 

With  sun  and  cloth  of  gold,  the  trum- 
pets blew, 

And  Arthur’s  knighthood  sang  before 
the  King  : — - 

“Blow  trumpet,  for  the  world  is 
white  with  May  ; 

Blow  trumpet,  the  long  night  hath 
roll’d  away ! 

Blow  thro’  the  living  world — ‘Let 
the  King  reign.’ 

“Shall  Rome  or  Heathen  rule  in 
Arthur’s  realm  ? 

Flash  brand  and  lance,  fall  battleaxe 
upon  helm, 


Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand!  Let 
the  King  reign. 

“ Strike  for  the  King  and  live  ! his 
knights  have  heard 

That  God  hath  told  the  King  a secret 
word. 

Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand!  Let 
the  King  reign. 

“ Blow  trumpet ! he  will  lift  us 
from  the  dust. 

Blow  trumpet ! live  the  strength  and 
die  the  lust ! 

Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand ! Let 
the  King  reign. 

“ Strike  for  the  King  and  die ! and 
if  thou  diest, 

The  King  is  King,  and  ever  wills  the 
highest. 

Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand ! 
Let  the  King  reign. 

“ Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mighty  in  his 
May ! 

Blow,  for  our  Sun  is  mightier  day  by 
day ! 

Clang  battleaxe,  and  clash  brand! 
Let  the  King  reign. 

“The  King  will  follow  Christ,  and 
we  the  King 

In  whom  high  God  hath  breathed  a 
secret  thing. 

Fall  battleaxe,  and  flash  brand!  Let 
the  King  reign.” 

So  sang  the  knighthood,  moving  to 
their  hall. 

There  at  the  banquet  those  great 
Lords  from  Rome, 

The  slowly-fading  mistress  of  the 
world, 

Strode  in,  and  claim’d  their  tribute  as 
of  yore. 

But  Arthur  spake,  “ Behold,  for  these 
have  sworn 

To  wage  my  wars,  and  worship  me 
their  King ; 

The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 
to  new; 


208 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father 
Christ, 

Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and 
old 

To  drive  the  heathen  from  your 
Roman  wall, 

No  tribute  will  we  pay  ” : so  those 
great  lords 

Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur 
strove  with  Rome. 


And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for 
a space 

Were  all  one  will,  and  thro’  that 
strength  the  King 

Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under 
him, 

Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles 
overcame 

The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a realm 
and  reign’d. 


THE  ROUND  TABLE. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

GERAINT  AND  ENID. 

MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 

LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 

And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a showerful 
spring 

Stared  at  the  spate.  A elender-shafted 
Pine 

Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl’d 
away. 

“ How  he  went  down,”  said  Gareth, 
“ as  a false  knight 

Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 

Were  mine  to  use  — O senseless  cata- 
ract, 

Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy  — 

And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with 
cold  snows 

And  mine  is  living  blood : thou  dost 
His  will, 

The  Maker’s,  and  not  knowest,  and  I 
that  knowr, 

Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good 
mother’s  hall 

Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 

Prison’d,  and  kept  and  coax’d  and 
whistled  to  — 

Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still 
a child  ! 

Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me  ! 

A worse  were  better ; yet  no  worse 
would  I. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

GUINEVERE. 

Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put 
force 

To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 
prayer, 

Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to 
sweep 

In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 

To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence 
swoop 

Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash 
them  dead, 

A knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his 
will, 

To  cleanse  the  world.  Why,  Gawain, 
when  he  came 

With  Modred  hither  in  the  summer- 
time, 

Ask’d  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven 
knight. 

Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the 
judge. 

Then  I so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he 
said, 

‘ Thou  hast  half  prevail’d  against  me,’ 
said  so  — he  — 

Tho’  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  was 
mute, 

For  he  is  alway  sullen : what  care  I ? ” 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering 
round  her  chair 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Z09 


Ask’d,  “ Mother,  tho’  ye  count  me  still 
the  child, 

Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child  ? ” 
She  laugh’d, 

“ Thou  art  but  a wild-goose  to  ques- 
tion it.” 

“ Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  the  child,” 
he  said, 

“ Being  a goose  and  rather  tame  than 
wild, 

Hear  the  child’s  story.”  “ Yea,  my 
well-beloved, 

An  ’twere  but  of  goose  and  golden 
eggs.” 

And  Gareth  answer’d  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 

“ Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg 
of  mine 

Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can 

lay ; 

For  this  an  Eagle,  a royal  Eagle,  laid 

Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a 
palm 

As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of 
Hours. 

And  there  was  ever  haunting  round 
the  palm 

A lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often 
saw 

The  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft, 
and  thought 

* An  I could  climb  and  lay  my  hand 
upon  it, 

Then  were  I wealthier  than  a leash  of 
kings/ 

But  ever  when  he  reach’d  a hand  to 
climb, 

One,  that  had  loved  him  from  his 
childhood,  caught 

And  stay’d  him,  ‘ Climb  not  lest  thou 
break  thy  neck, 

I charge  thee  by  my  love/  and  so  the 
boy, 

Sweet  mother,  neither  clomb,  nor 
brake  his  neck, 

But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining 
for  it, 

And  past  away.” 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 

“True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk’d  him- 
self and  climb’d, 


And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure 
to  him.” 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 

“ Gold  ? said  I gold  ? — ay  then,  why 
he,  or  she, 

Or  whoso’er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 

Had  ventured  — had  the  thing  I spake 
of  been 

Mere  gold  — but  this  was  all  of  that 
true  steel, 

Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur, 

And  lightnings  play’d  about  it  in  the 
storm, 

And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried 
at  it, 

And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in 
the  nest, 

That  sent  him  from  his  senses  : let  me 
go.” 

Then  Bellicent  bemoan’d  herself 
and  said, 

“ Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneli- 
ness 1 

Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the 
hearth 

Lies  like  a log,  and  all  but  smoulder’d 
out ! 

For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the 
King 

He  fought  against  him  in  the  Barons’ 
war, 

And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  terri 
tory, 

His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now 
lies  there 

A yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburia- 
ble, 

No  more ; nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor 
speaks,  nor  knows. 

And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur’s 
hall, 

Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full 
love 

I feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a 
love  : 

Stay  therefore  thou ; red  berries  charm 
the  bird, 

And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts, 
the  wars, 


210 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor 
pang 

Of  wrench’d  or  broken  limb  — an  often 
chance 

In  those  brain-stunning  shocks,  and 
tourney-falls, 

Frights  to  my  heart ; but  stay  : follow 
the  deer 

By  these  tall  firs  and  our  fast-falling 
burns ; 

So  make  thy  manhood  mightier  day 
by  day ; 

Sweet  is  the  chase : and  I will  seek 
thee  out 

Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to 
grace 

Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my 
prone  year, 

Till  falling  into  Lot’s  forgetfulness 

I know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  any- 
thing. 

Stay,  my  best  son  ! ye  are  yet  more 
boy  than  man.” 

Then  Gareth,  “ An  ye  hold  me  yet 
for  child, 

Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the 
child. 

For,  mother,  there  was  once  a King, 
like  ours. 

The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and 
marriageable, 

Ask’d  for  a bride  ; and  thereupon  the 
King 

Set  two  before  him.  One  was  fair, 
strong,  arm’d  — 

But  to  be  won  by  force  — and  many 
men 

Desired  her ; one,  good  lack,  no  man 
desired. 

And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the 
King  : 

That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force, 
he  needs 

Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man 
desired, 

A red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself 
so  vile, 

That  evermore  she  long’d  to  hide  her- 
self, 

Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to 
eye  — 


Yea — some  she  cleaved  to,  but  they 
died  of  her. 

And  one  — they  call’d  her  Fame ; and 
one,  — O Mother, 

How  can  ye  keep  me  tether’d  to  you 
— Shame ! 

Man  am  I grown,  a man’s  work  must 
I do. 

Follow  the  deer?  follow  the  Christ, 
the  King, 

Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong, 
follow  the  King  — 

Else,  wherefore  born  ? ” 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 

“ Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who 
deem  him  not, 

Or  will  not  deem  him,  wholly  proven 
King  — 

Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I knew  him 
King, 

When  I was  frequent  with  him  in  my 
youth, 

And  heard  him  Kingly  speak,  and 
doubted  him 

No  more  than  he,  himself;  but  felt 
him  mine, 

Of  closest  kin  to  me  : yet  — wilt  thou 
leave 

Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk 
thine  all, 

Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven 
King  ? 

Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  round 
his  birth 

Hath  lifted  but  a little.  Stay,  sweet 
son.” 

And  Gareth  answer’d  quickly,  “ Not 
an  hour, 

So  that  ye  yield  me  — I will  walk  thro’ 
fire, 

Mother,  to  gain  it  — your  full  leave  to 
go. 

Not  proven,  Avho  swept  the  dust  of 
ruin’d  Rome 

From  off  the  threshold  of  the  realm, 
and  crush’d 

The  Idolaters,  and  made  the  people 
free  ? 

Who  should  be  King  save  him  who 
makes  us  free  ? ” 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


211 


So  when  the  Queen,  who  long  had 
sought  in  vain 

To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which 
he  grew, 

Found  her  son’s  will  unwaveringly 
one, 

She  answer’d  craftily,  “ Will  ye  walk 
thro’  fire  ? 

Who  walks  thro’  fire  will  hardly  heed 
the  smoke. 

Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must : only  one 
proof, 

Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 
knight, 

Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to 
me, 

Thy  mother,  — I demand.” 

And  Gareth  cried, 

“ A hard  one,  or  a hundred,  so  I go. 

Nay  — quick ! the  proof  to  prove  me 
to  the  quick  ! ” 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother  look- 
ing at  him, 

“Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to 
Arthur’s  hall, 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats 
and  drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen- 
knaves, 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across 
the  bar. 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any- 
one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a twelvemonth 
and  a day.” 

For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when 
her  son 

Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 

Low  down  thro’  villain  kitchen-vas- 
salage, 

Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely- 
proud 

To  pass  thereby ; so  should  he  rest 
with  her, 

Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of 
arms. 

Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then 
replied, 


“ The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in 
soul, 

And  I shall  see  the  jousts.  Thy  son 
am  I, 

And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must 
obey. 

I therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will ; 

For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire 
myself 

To  serve  with  scullions  and  with 
kitchen-knaves  ; 

Nor  tell  my  name  to  any  — no,  not  the 
King.” 

Gareth  awhile  linger’d.  The 
mother’s  eye 

Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would 

go, 

And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe’er 
he  turn’d, 

Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  an 
hour, 

When  waken’d  by  the  wind  which  with 
full  voice 

Swept  bellowing  thro’  the  darkness  on 
to  dawn, 

He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling 
two 

That  still  had  tended  on  him  from  his 
birth, 

Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him, 
went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of 
the  soil. 

Southward  they  set  their  faces.  The 
birds  made 

Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid 
air. 

The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken’d 
into  green, 

And  the  live  green  had  kindled  into 
flowers, 

For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on 
the  plain 

That  broaden’d  toward  the  base  of 
Camelot, 

F’ar  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 

Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  Royal 
mount, 


212 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the 
field. 

At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city 
flash’d ; 

At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half- 
way down 

Prick’d  thro’  the  mist;  at  times  the 
great  gate  shone 

Only,  that  open’d  on  the  field  below : 

Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disap- 
pear’d. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth 
were  amazed, 

One  crying,  “ Let  us  go  no  further, 
lord. 

Here  is  a city  of  Enchanters,  built 

By  fairy  kings.”  The  second  echo’d 
him, 

“ Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise 
man  at  home 

To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not 
the  King, 

But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairy- 
land, 

Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by 
sorcery 

And  Merlin’s  glamour.”  Then  the  first 
again, 

“ Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere, 

But  all  a vision.” 

Gareth  answer’d  them 

With  laughter,  swearing  he  had 
glamour  enow 

In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth 
and  hopes, 

To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian 
sea ; 

So  push’d  them  all  unwilling  toward 
the  gate. 

And  there  was  no  gate  like  it  under 
heaven. 

For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which 
was  lined 

And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave, 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood : all  her 
dress 

Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flowing 
away ; 

But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly 
arms 


Stretch’d  under  all  the  cornice  and 
upheld  : 

And  drops  of  water  fell  from  either 
hand ; 

And  down  from  one  a sword  was  hung, 
from  one 

A censer,  either  worn  with  wind  and 
storm ; 

And  o’er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred 
fish; 

And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and 
right, 

Were  Arthur’s  wars  in  weird  devices 
done, 

New  things  and  old  co-twisted,  as  if 
Time 

Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that 
men 

Were  giddy  gazing  there;  and  over 
all 

High  on  the  top  were  those  three 
Queens,  the  friends 

Of  Arthur,  who  should  Help  him  at 
his  need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long 
a space 

Stared  at  the  figures,  that  at  last  it 
seem’d 

The  dragon-boughts  and  elvish  em- 
blemings 

Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine  and 
curl : they  call’d 

To  Gareth,  “ Lord,  the  gateway  is 
alive.” 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt  his 
eyes 

So  long,  that  ev’n  to  him  they  seem’d 
to  move. 

Out  of  the  city  a blast  of  music  peal’d. 

Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three, 
to  whom 

From  out  thereunder  came  an  ancient 
man, 

Long-bearded,  saying,  “ Who  be  ye, 
my  sons  ? ” 

Then  Gareth,  “ We  be  tillers  of  the 
soil. 

Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to 
see 


'ARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


213 


The  glories  of  our  King:  hut  these, 
my  men, 

(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the 
mist) 

Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or 
come 

From  Fairyland ; and  whether  this 
be  built 

By  magic,  and  by  fairy  Kings  and 
Queens ; 

Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all, 

Or  all  a vision  : and  this  music  now 

Hath  scared  them  both,  but  tell  thou 
these  the  truth.” 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer 
playing  on  him 

And  saying,  “ Son,  I have  seen  the 
good  ship  sail 

Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in 
the  heavens, 

And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air : 

And  here  is  truth ; but  an  it  please 
thee  not, 

Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told 
it  me. 

For  truly  as  thou  sayest,  a Fairy  King 

And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city, 
son  ; 

They  came  from  outa  sacred  mountain- 
cleft 

Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp 
in  hand, 

And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps. 

And  as  thou  sayest  it  is  enchanted, 
son, 

For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 

Saving  the  King ; tho’  some  there  be 
that  hold 

The  King  a shadow,  and  the  city  real : 

Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so 
thou  pass 

Beneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou 
become 

A thrall  to  his  enchantments,  for  the 
King 

Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a 
shame 

A man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet 
the  which 

No  man  can  keep ; but,  so  thou  dread 
to  swear, 


Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but 
abide 

Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field. 
For  an  ye  heard  a music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city 
is  built 

To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all. 
And  therefore  built  for  ever. 

Gareth  spake 
Anger’d,  “ Old  Master,  reverence  thine 
own  beard 

That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth, 
and  seems 

Wellnigh  as  long  as  thou  art  statured 
tall! 

Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that 
hath  been 

To  thee  fair-spoken  ? ” 

But  the  Seer  replied, 
“ Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of 
the  Bards  % 

1 Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation, 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion  ’ ? 

I mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest 
me, 

And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not 
who 

Thou  seemest,  but  I know  thee  who 
thou  art. 

And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the 
King, 

Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any 
lie.” 

Unmockingly  the  mocker  ending 
here 

Turn’d  to  the  right,  and  past  along 
the  plain ; 

Whom  Gareth  looking  after  said,  “ My 
men, 

Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enter- 
prise. 

Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  nor  she,  nor 
I: 

Well,  we  will  make  amends.” 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laugh’d,  then  enter’d 
with  his  twain 


214 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Camelot,  a city  of  shadowy  palaces 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the 
work 

Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days  in 
stone ; 

Which  Merlin’s  hand,  the  Mage  at 
Arthur’s  court, 

Knowing  all  arts,  had  touch’d,  and 
everywhere 

At  Arthur’s  ordinance,  tipt  with  lessen- 
ing peak 

And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire 
to  heaven. 

And  ever  and  anon  a knight  would  pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall : his 
arms 

Clash’d ; and  the  sound  was  good  to 
Gareth’s  ear. 

And  out  of  bower  and  casement  shyly 
glanced 

Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars 
of  love ; 

And  all  about  a healthful  people  stept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a gracious  king. 

Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending 
heard 

A voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  be- 
held 

Far  over  heads  in  that  long-vaulted 
hall 

The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the 
King 

Throned,  and  delivering  doom  — and 
look’d  no  more  — 

But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering 
in  his  ears, 

And  thought,  “For  this  half-shadow 
of  a lie 

The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when 
I speak.” 

Yet  pressing  on,  tho’  all  in  fear  to  find 
Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 
Of  those  tall  knights,  that  ranged 
about  the  throne, 

Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King, 
with  pure 

Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory, 
And  glory  gain’d,  and  evermore  to 
gain. 


Then  came  a widow  crying  to  the 
King, 

“A  boon,  Sir  King!  Thy  father, 
Uther,  reft 

From  my  dead  lord  a field  with  vio- 
lence : 

For  howsoe’er  at  first  he  proffer’d  gold, 

Yet,  for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our 
eyes, 

We  yielded  not;  and  then  he  reft  us 
of  it 

Perforce,  and  left  us  neither  gold  nor 
field.” 

Said  Arthur,  “ Whether  would  ye  ? 
gold  or  field  ? ” 

To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  “ Nay, 
my  lord, 

The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  hus- 
band’s eye.” 

And  Arthur,  “ Have  thy  pleasant 
field  again, 

And  thrice  the  gold  for  Uther’s  use 
thereof, 

According  to  the  years.  No  boon  is 
here, 

But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven 
true. 

Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his 
father  did 

Would  shape  himself  a right!” 

And  while  she  past, 

Came  yet  another  widow  crying  to 
him, 

“A  boon,  Sir  King!  Thine  enemy, 
King,  am  I. 

With  thine  own  hand  thou  slewest  my 
dear  lord, 

A knight  of  Uther  in  the  Barons’  war, 

When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  and 
fought 

Against  thee,  saying  thou  wert  basely 
born. 

I held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask 
thee  aught. 

Yet  lo  ! my  husband’s  brother  had  my 
son 

Thrall’d  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved 
him  dead ; 

And  standeth  seized  of  that  inheritance 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


215 


Which  thou  that  slowest  the  sire  hast 
left  the  son. 

So  tho’  I scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for 
hate, 

Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle 
for  me, 

Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for 
my  son.” 

Then  strode  a good  knight  forward, 
crying  to  him, 

“A  boon,  Sir  King!  I am  her  kins- 
man, I. 

Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay 
the  man.” 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 
and  cried, 

“ A boon,  Sir  King ! ev’n  that  thou 
grant  her  none, 

This  railer,  that  hath  mock’d  thee  in 
full  hall  — 

None ; or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve 
and  gag.” 

But  Arthur,  “We  sit  King,  to  help 
the  wrong’d 

Thro’  all  our  realm.  The  woman  loves 
her  lord. 

Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves 
and  hates ! 

The  kings  of  old  had  doom’d  thee  to 
the  flames, 

Aurelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged 
thee  dead, 

And  Uther  slit  thy  tongue : but  get 
thee  hence  — 

Lest  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of 
old 

Return  upon  me ! Thou  that  art  her 
kin, 

Go  likewise  ; lay  him  low  and  slay 
him  not, 

But  bring  him  here,  that  I may  judge 
the  right, 

According  to  the  justice  of  the  King: 

Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless 
King 

Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man 
shall  die.” 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of 
Mark, 


A name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 

The  Cornish  king.  In  either  hand  lie 
bore 

What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-off  as 
shines 

A field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 

Between  two  showers,  a cloth  of  palest 
gold, 

Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne', 
and  knelt, 

Delivering,  that  his  lord,  the  vassal 
king, 

Was  ev’n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot ; 

For  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his 
grace 

Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Tristram, 
knight, 

And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater 
state, 

Being  a king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 

AVould  yield  him  this  large  honor  all 
the  more; 

So  pray’d  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth 
of  gold, 

In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth, 
to  rend 

In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the 
hearth. 

An  oak-tree  smoulder’d  there.  “ The 
goodly  knight! 

What!  shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand 
among  these  ? ” 

For,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long 
hall 

A stately  pile, — whereof  along  the 
front, 

Some  blazon’d,  some  but  carven,  and 
some  blank, 

There  ran  a treble  range  of  stony 
shields,  — 

Rose,  and  high-arching  overbrow’d  the 
hearth. 

And  under  every  shield  a knight  was 
named : 

For  this  was  Arthur’s  custom  in  his 
hall ; 

When  some  good  knight  had  done  one 
noble  deed, 

Ills  arms  were  carven  only ; but  if 
twain 


216 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


His  arms  were  blazon’d  also;  but  if 
none 

The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without 
a sign 

Saving  the  name  beneath  ; and  Gareth 
saw 

The  shield  of  Gawain  blazon’d  rich  and 
bright, 

And  Modred’s  blank  as  death ; and 
Arthur  cried 

To  rend  the  cloth  and  cast  it  on  the 
hearth. 

“ More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of 
his  crown 

Than  make  him  knight  because  men 
call  him  king. 

The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we 
stay’d  their  hands 

From  war  among  themselves,  but  left 
them  kings ; 

Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merci- 
ful, 

Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers, 
them  we  enroll’d 

Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our 
hall. 

But  Mark  hath  tarnish’d  the  great 
name  of  king, 

As  Mark  would  sully  the  low  state  of 
churl : 

And,  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of 
gold, 

Return,  and  meet,  and  hold  him  from 
our  eyes, 

Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of 
lead, 

Silenced  for  ever  — craven  — a man 
of  plots, 

Craft,  poisonous  counsels,  wayside 
ambushings  — 

No  fault  of  thine : let  Kay  the  senes- 
chal 

Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  sat- 
isfied — 

Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the 
hand  be  seen ! ” 

And  many  another  suppliant  crying 
came 

With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by 
beast  and  man, 


And  evermore  a knight  would  ride 
away. 

Last,  Gareth  leaning  both  hands 
heavily 

Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain, 
his  men, 

Approach’d  between  them  toward  the 
King,  and  ask’d, 

“ A boon.  Sir  King  (his  voice  was  all 
ashamed), 

For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hunger- 
worn 

I seem  — leaning  on  these  ? grant  me 
to  serve 

For  meat  and  drink  among  thy 
kitchen-knaves 

A twelvemonth  and  a day,  nor  seek 
my  name. 

Hereafter  I will  fight.” 

To  him  the  King, 

“ A goodly  youth  and  worth  a good- 
lier boon  ! 

But  so  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then 
must  Kay, 

The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks, 
be  thine.” 

He  rose  and  past ; then  Kay,  a man 
of  mien 

Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels 
itself 

Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

“ Lo  ye  now  ! 

This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some 
Abbey,  where, 

God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis 
enow, 

However  that  might  chance ! but  an 
he  work, 

Like  any  pigeon  will  I cram  his  crop, 

And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any 
hog.” 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near,  “ Sir 
Seneschal, 

Sleuth-hound  thou  knowest,  and  gray, 
and  all  the  hounds ; 

A horse  thou  kmwest,  a man  thou  dost 
not  know : 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


217 


Broad  brows  and  fair,  a fluent  hair 
and  fine, 

High  nose,  a nostril  large  and  fine, 
and  hands 

Large,  fair  and  fine!  — some  young 
lad’s  mystery  — 

But,  or  from  sheepeot  or  king’s  hall, 
the  boy 

Is  noble-natured.  Treat  him  with  all 
grace, 

Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy 
judging  of  him.” 

Then  Kay,  “ What  murmurest  thou 
of  mystery  ? 

Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the 
King’s  dish  ? 

Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like : 
mystery ! 

Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had 
ask’d 

For  horse  and  armor : fair  and  fine, 
forsooth ! 

Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands  ? but  see 
thou  to  it 

That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot, 
some  fine  day 

Undo  thee  not  — and  leave  my  man 
to  me.” 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 

The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen-vassalage ; 

Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by 
the  door, 

And  couch’d  at  night  with  grimy 
kitchen-knaves. 

And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleas- 
antly, 

But  Kay  the  seneschal  who  loved  him 
not 

Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and 
labor  him 

Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth, 
and  set 

To  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or 
hew  wood, 

Or  grosser  tasks ; and  Gareth  bow’d 
himself 

With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and 
wrought 

All  kind  of  service  with  a noble 
ease 


That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing 
it. 

And  when  the  thralls  had  talk  among 
themselves, 

And  one  would  praise  the  love  that 
linkt  the  King 

And  Lancelot  — how  the  King  had 
saved  his  life 

In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the 
King’s  — 

For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tourna- 
ment, 

But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battle- 
field— 

Gareth  was  glad.  Or  if  some  other 
told, 

How  once  the  wandering  forester  at 
dawn, 

Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy 
seas, 

On  Caer-E^ri’s  highest  found  the 
King, 

A naked  babe,  of  whom  the  Prophet 
spake, 

“ He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 

He  passes  and  is  heal’d  and  cannot 
die  ” — 

Gareth  was  glad.  But  if  their  talk 
were  foul, 

Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any 
lark, 

Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so 
loud 

That  first  they  mock’d,  but,  after, 
reverenced  him. 

Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 

Of  knights,  who  sliced  a red  life-bub- 
bling way 

Thro’  twenty  folds  of  twisted  dragon, 
held 

All  in  a gap-mouth’d  circle  his  good 
mates 

Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands, 

Charm’d;  till  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 
would  come 

Blustering  upon  them,  like  a sudden 
wind 

Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them 
all  apart. 

Or  when  the  thralls  had  sport  among 
themselves, 

So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery, 


218 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or 
stone 

Was  counted  best;  and  if  there 
chanced  a joust, 

So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to 
go, 

Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he 
saw  the  knights 

Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring 
wave, 

And  the  spear  spring,  and  good  horse 
reel,  the  boy 

Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a month  he  wrought  among 
the  thralls  ; 

But  in  the  weeks  that  follow’d,  the 
good  Queen, 

Kepentant  of  the  word  she  made  him 
swear, 

And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle, 
sent, 

Between  the  in-crescent  and  de-cres- 
cent moon, 

Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from 
his  vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a squire 
of  Lot 

With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney 
once, 

When  both  were  children,  and  in 
lonely  haunts 

Would  scratch  a ragged  oval  on  the 
sand, 

And  each  at  either  dash  from  either 
end  — 

Shame  never  made  girl  redder  than 
Gareth  joy. 

He  laugh’d  ; he  sprang.  “ Out  of  the 
smoke,  at  once 

I leap  from  Satan’s  foot  to  Peter’s 
knee  — 

These  news  be  mine,  none  other’s — 
nay,  the  King’s  — 

Descend  into  the  city : ” whereon  he 
sought 

The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told 
him  all. 

“I  have  stagger’d  thy  strong  Ga- 
wain  in  a tilt 


For  pastime;  yea,  he  said  it:  joust 
can  I. 

Make  me  thy  knight — in  secret!  let 
my  name 

Be  hidd’n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest, 
I spring 

Like  flame  from  ashes.” 

Here  the  King’s  calm  eye 
Fell  on,  and  check’d,  and  made  him 
flush,  and  bow 

Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer’d 
him, 

“ Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know 
thee  here, 

And  sent  her  wish  that  I would  yield 
thee  thine. 

Make  thee  my  knight  1 my  knights 
are  sworn  to  vows 

Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness, 
And,  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love, 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King.” 

Then  Gareth,  lightly  springing  from 
his  knees, 

“ My  King,  for  hardihood  I can  prom- 
ise thee. 

For  uttermost  obedience  make  de- 
mand 

Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 
No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and 
drinks ! 

And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I love  not 
yet, 

But  love  I shall,  God  willing.” 

And  the  King  — 
“ Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret "?  yea, 
but  he, 

Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest 
man, 

And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs 
must  know.” 

“ Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let 
Lancelot  know, 

Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest ! ” 

And  the  King  — 
“ But  wherefore  would  ye  men  should 
wonder  at  you  ? 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


219 


Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their 
King, 

And  the  deed’s  sake  my  knighthood 
do  the  deed, 

Than  to  be  noised  of.” 

Merrily  Gareth  ask’d, 

“ Have  I not  earn’d  my  cake  in  baking 
of  it  ? 

Let  be  my  name  until  I make  my 
name  ! 

My  deeds  will  speak  : it  is  but  for  a 
day.” 

So  with  a kindly  hand  on  Gareth’s 
arm 

Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half- 
unwillingly 

Loving  his  lusty  youthhood  yielded 
to  him. 

Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot 
privily, 

“ I have  given  him  the  first  quest : he 
is  not  proven. 

Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this 
in  hall, 

Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far 
away. 

Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 

Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta’en 
nor  slain.” 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into 
the  hall 

A damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a brow 

May-blossom,  and  a cheek  of  apple- 
blossom, 

Hawk-eyes  ; and  lightly  was  her  slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a flower ; 

She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and 
cried, 

“ O King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the 
foe  without, 

See  to  the  foe  within ! bridge,  ford, 
beset 

By  bandits,  everyone  that  owns  a 
tower 

The  Lord  for  half  a league.  Why  sit 
ye  there  ? 

Rest  would  I not,  Sir  King,  an  I were 
king, 


Till  ev’n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as 
free 

From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar- 
cloth 

From  that  best  blood  it  is  a sin  to 
spill.” 

“ Comfort  thyself,”  said  Arthur,  “I 
nor  mine 

Rest : so  my  knighthood  keep  the 
vows  they  swore, 

The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm 
shall  be 

Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 

What  is  thy  name  1 thy  need  ? ” 

“ My  name  ? ” she  said  — 

“ Lynette  my  name  ; noble ; my  need, 
a knight 

To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 

A lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands, 

And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than 
myself. 

She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous : a river 

Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living- 
place  ; 

And  o’er  it  are  three  passings,  and 
three  knights 

Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a 
fourth 

And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds 
her  stay’d 

In  her  own  castle,  and  so  besieges  her 

To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed 
with  him  : 

And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou 
send 

To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief 
man 

Sir  Lancelot  whom  he  trusts  to  over- 
throw, 

Then  wed,  with  glory  : but  she  will 
not  wed 

Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a holy  life. 

Now  therefore  have  I come  for 
Lancelot.” 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth 
ask’d, 

“ Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to 
crush 


220 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


All  wrongers  of  tlie  Realm.  But  say, 
these  four, 

Who  be  they  ? What  the  fashion  of 
the  men  ? ” 

“ They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O Sir 
King, 

The  fashion  of  that  old  knight- 
errantry 

Who  ride  abroad  and  do  but  what 
they  will ; 

Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment, 
such 

As  have  nor  law  nor  king ; and  three 
of  these 

Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves 
the  Bay, 

Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and 
Evening- Star, 

Being  strong  fools  ; and  never  a whit 
more  wise 

The  fourth  who  alway  rideth  arm’d 
in  black, 

A huge  man-beast  of  boundless  sav- 
agery. 

He  names  himself  the  Night,  and 
of tener  Death, 

And  wears  a helmet  mounted  with  a 
skull, 

And  bears  a skeleton  figured  on  his 
arms, 

To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape 
the  three 

Slain  by  himself  shall  enter  endless 
night. 

And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty 
men, 

And  therefore  am  I come  for  Lance- 
lot.” 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call’d  from  where 
he  rose, 

A head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the 
throng, 

“ A boon,  Sir  King  — this  quest ! ” 
then  — for  he  mark’d 

Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a wounded 
bull  — 

“ Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro’  thy  meats  and  drinks 
am  I, 


And  I can  topple  over  a hundred  such. 

Thy  promise,  King,”  and  Arthur  glanc- 
ing at  him, 

Brought  down  a momentary  brow. 
“ Rough,  sudden, 

And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight— 

Go,  therefore,”  and  all  hearers  were 
amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel’s  forehead  shame, 
pride,  wrath 

Slew  the  May-white : she  lifted  either 
arm, 

“ Fie  on  thee,  King ! I ask’d  for  thy 
chief  knight, 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a kitchen- 
knave.” 

Then  ere  a man  in  hall  could  stay  her, 
turn’d, 

Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the 
King, 

Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street, 
and  past 

The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  with- 
out, beside 

The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring 
“ kitchen-knave.” 

Now  two  great  entries  open’d  from 
the  hall, 

At  one  end  one,  that  gave  upon  a 
range 

Of  level  pavement  where  the  King 
would  pace 

At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and 
wood ; 

And  down  from  this  a lordly  stairway 
sloped 

Till  lost  in  blowing  trees  and  tops  of 
towers ; 

And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past 
the  King. 

But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth, 
and  rose 

High  that  the  highest-crested  helm 
could  ride 

Therethro’  nor  graze : and  by  this  entry 
fled 

The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to 
this 

Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without 
the  door 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


221 


King  Arthur’s  gift,  the  worth  of  half 
a town, 

A warhorse  of  the  best,  and  near  it 
stood 

The  two  that  out  of  north  had  fol- 
low’d him  : 

This  bare  a maiden  shield,  a casque  ; 
that  held 

The  horse,  the  spear ; whereat  Sir 
Gareth  loosed 

A cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone 
to  heel, 

A cloth  of  roughest  web,  and  cast  it 
down, 

And  from  it  like  a fuel-smother’d  fire, 

That  lookt  half-dead,  brake  bright,  and 
flash’d  as  those 

Dull-coated  things,  that  making  slide 
apart 

Their  dusk  wing-cases,  all  beneath 
there  burns 

A jewell’d  harness,  ere  they  pass  and 
%• 

So  Gareth  ere  he  * parted  flash’d  in 
arms. 

Then  as  he  donn’d  the  helm,  and  took 
the  shield 

And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a 
spear,  of  grain 

Storm-strengthen’d  on  a windy  site, 
and  tipt 

With  trenchant  steel,  around  him 
slowly  prest 

The  people,  while  from  out  of  kitchen 
came 

The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who 
had  work’d 

Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could 
but  love, 

Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps 
and  cried, 

“ God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his 
fellowship ! ” 

And  on  thro’  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth 
rode 

Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  with- 
out the  gate. 

So  Gareth  past  with  joy;  but  as  the 
cur 

Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with, 
ere  his  cause 


Be  cool’d  by  fighting,  follows,  being 
named, 

His  <5wner,  but  remembers  all,  and 
growls 

Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the 
door 

Mutter’d  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he 
used 

To  harry  and  hustle. 

“ Bound  upon  a quest 

With  horse  and  arms  — the  King  hath 
past  his  time  — 

My  scullion  knave  ! Thralls  to  your 
work  again. 

For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle 
mine ! 

Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve 
in  East  'l 

Begone  ! — my  knave  ! — belike  and 
like  enow 

Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his 
youth 

So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  his 
prime  — 

Crazed!  how'  the  villain  lifted  up  his 
voice, 

Nor  shamed  to  bawd  himself  a kitchen- 
knave. 

Tut : he  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with 
me, 

Till  peacock’d  up  with  Lancelot’s 
noticing. 

Well  — I will  after  my  loud  knave, 
and  learn 

Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master 
yet. 

Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my 
lance 

Hold,  by  God’s  grace,  he  shall  into 
the  mire  — 

Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his 
craze, 

Into  the  smoke  again.” 

But  Lancelot  said, 

“ Kay,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go  against 
the  King, 

For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail, 

But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in 
thee 't 

Abide : take  counsel ; for  this  lad  is 
great 


222 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance 
and  sword.” 

“ Tut,  tell  not  me,”  said  Kay,  “^e  are 
overfine 

To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish 
courtesies  r ” 

Then  mounted,  on  thro1  silent  faces 
rode 

Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond 
the  gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  linger- 
ing yet 

Mutter’d  the  damsel,  “ Wherefore  did 
the  King 

Scorn  me  ? for,  were  Sir  Lancelot 
lackt,  at  least 

He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of 
those 

Who  tilt  for  lady’s  love  and  glory 
here, 

Rather  than — O sweet  heaven!  O 
fie  upon  him  — 

His  kitchen-knave.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 

(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier 
than  he) 

Shining  in  arms,  “ Damsel,  the  quest 
is  mine. 

Lead,  and  I follow.”  She  thereat,  as 
one 

That  smells  a foul-flesh’d  agaric  in  the 
holt, 

And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  wood- 
land thing, 

Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender 
nose 

With  petulant  thumb  and  finger, 
shrilling,  “ Hence ! 

Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen- 
grease. 

And  look  who  comes  behind,”  for 
there  was  Kay. 

“ Knowest  thou  not  me  ? thy  master  1 
I am  Kay. 

We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth.” 

And  Gareth  to  him, 

“ Master  no  more  ! too  well  I know 
thee,  ay  — 


The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur’s 
hall.” 

“ Have  at  thee  then,”  said  Kay : they 
shock’d,  and  Kay 

Fell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried 
again, 

“ Lead,  and  I follow,”  and  fast  away 
she  fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to 

fly 

Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good 
horse 

Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the 
beat, 

Perforce  she  stay’d,  and  overtaken 
spoke. 

“ What  doest  thou,  scullion,  in  my 
fellowship  ? 

Deem’st  thou  that  I accept  thee  aught 
the  more 

Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some 
device 

Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappi- 
ness, 

Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy 
master  — thou  ! — 

Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon  ! 
— to  me 

Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  be- 
fore.” 

“ Damsel,”  Sir  Gareth  answer’d 
gently,  “ say 

Whate’er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe’er  ye 
say, 

I leave  not  till  I finish  this  fair  quest, 

Or  die  therefore.” 

“ Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it  ? 

Sweet  lord,  how  like  a noble  knight  he 
talks  ! 

The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the 
manner  of  it. 

But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met 
with,  knave, 

And  then  by  such  a one  that  thou  for 
all 

The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 

Shalt  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the 
face.” 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


223 


“ I shall  assay,”  said  Gareth  with  a 
smile 

That  madden’d  her,  and  away  she 
flash’d  again 

Down  the  long  avenues  of  a boundless 
wood. 

And  Gareth  following  was  again  be- 
knaved. 

“ Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I have  miss’d 
the  only  way 

Where  Arthur’s  men  are  set  along  the 
wood ; 

The  wood  is  nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as 
leaves : 

If  both  be  slain,  I am  rid  of  thee ; but 
yet, 

Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit 
of  thine  ? 

Fight,  an  thou  canst : I have  miss’d 
the  only  way.” 

So  till  the  dusk  that  follow’d  even- 
song 

Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled ; 

Then  after  one  long  slope  was 
mounted,  saw, 

Bowl-shaped,  thro’  tops  of  many  thou- 
sand pines 

A gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 

To  westward  — in  the  deeps  whereof 
a mere, 

Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle- 
owl, 

Under  the  half-dead  sunset  glared ; 
and  shouts 

Ascended,  and  there  brake  a serving- 
man 

Flying  from  out  the  black  wood,  and 
crying, 

“ They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast 
him  in  the  mere.” 

Then  Gareth,  “ Bound  am  I to  right 
the  wrong’d, 

But  straitlier  bound  am  I to  bide  with 
thee.” 

And  when  the  damsel  spake  contempt- 
uously, 

“ Lead,  and  I follow,”  Gareth  cried 
again, 

“ Follow,  I lead ! ” so  down  among  the 
pines 


He  plunged ; and  there,  blacksliadow’d 
nigh  the  mere, 

And  mid-thigh-deep  in  bulrushes  and 
reed, 

Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a seventh 
along, 

A stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him 
in  it. 

Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but 
three 

Fled  thro’ the  pines;  and  Gareth  loosed 
the  stone 

From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere 
beside 

Tumbled  it;  oilily  bubbled  up  the 
mere. 

Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on 
free  feet 

Set  him,  a stalwart  Baron,  Arthur’s 
friend. 


“Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these 
caitiff  rogues 

Had  wreak’d  themselves  on  me  ; good 
cause  is  theirs 

To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever 
been 

To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  ver- 
min here 

Drown  him,  and  with  a stone  about 
his  neck  ; 

And  under  this  wan  water  many  of 
them 

Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  the 
stone, 

And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a grimly 
light 

Dance  on  the  mere.  Good  now,  ye 
have  saved  a life 

Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of 
this  wood. 

And  fain  would  I reward  thee  worship- 
fully. 

What  guerdon  will  ye  1 ” 

Gareth  sharply  spake, 

“ None ! for  the  deed’s  sake  have  I 
done  the  deed, 

In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 

But  wilt  thou  yield  this  damsel  har- 
borage ? ” 


224 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Whereat  the  Baron  saying,  “ I well 
believe 

You  be  of  Arthur’s  Table,”  a light 
laugh 

Broke  from  Lynette,  “ Ay,  truly  of  a 
truth, 

And  in  a sort,  being  Arthur’s  kitchen- 
knave  ! — 

But  deem  not  I accept  thee  aught  the 
more, 

Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy 
spit 

Down  on  a rout  of  craven  foresters. 

A thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter’d 
them. 

Nay  — for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen 
still. 

But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harbor- 
age, 

Well.” 

So  she  spake.  A league  beyond 
the  wood, 

All  in  a full-fair  manor  and  a rich, 

His  towers  where  that  day  a feast  had 
been 

Held  in  high  wall,  and  many  a viand 
left, 

And  many  a costly  cate,  received  the 
three. 

And  there  they  placed  a peacock  in 
his  pride 

Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron 
set 

Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she 
rose. 

“ Meseems,  that  here  is  much  dis- 
courtesy, 

Setting  this  knave,  Lord  Baron,  at  my 
side. 

Hear  me  — this  morn  I stood  in 
Arthur’s  hall, 

And  pray’d  the  King  would  grant  me 
Lancelot 

To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and 
Night  — 

The  last  a monster  unsubduable 

Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I 
call’d  — 

Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless  kitchen- 
knave, 


‘ The  quest  is  mine ; thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro’  thy  meats  and 
drinks  am  I.’ 

Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad 
replies, 

‘ Go  therefore,’  and  so  gives  the  quest 
to  him  — 

Him  — here  — a villain  fitter  to  stick 
swine 

Than  ride  abroad  redressing  women’s 
wrong, 

Or  sit  beside  a noble  gentlewoman.” 

Then  half-ashamed  and  part- 
amazed,  the  lord 

Now  look’d  at  one  and  now  at  other, 
left 

The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his 
pride, 

And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board, 

Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then 
began. 

“ Friend,  whether  tliou  be  kitchen- 
knave,  or  not. 

Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden’s  fantasy, 

And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the 
King, 

Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 

I ask  not : but  thou  strikest  a strong 
stroke, 

For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  there- 
withal, 

And  saver  of  my  life ; and  therefore 
now, 

For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with, 
weigh 

Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  dam- 
sel back 

To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 
King. 

Thy  pardon ; I but  speak  for  thine 
avail, 

The  saver  of  my  life.” 

And  Gareth  said, 

“Full  pardon,  but  I follow  up  the 
quest, 

Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death 
and  Hell.” 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


225 


So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose 
life  he  saved 

Had,  some  brief  space,  convey’d  them 
on  their  way 

And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir 
Gareth  spake, 

“ Lead,  and  I follow.”  Haughtily  she 
replied, 

“ I fly  no  more  : I allow  thee  for  an 
hour. 

Lion  and  stoat  have  isled  together, 
knave, 

In  time  of  flood.  Nay,  furthermore, 
methinks 

Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.  Back 
wTilt  thou,  fool  ? 

For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 

And  slay  thee  : then  will  I to  court 
again, 

And  shame  the  King  for  only  yield- 
ing me 

My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his 
hearth.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer’d  cour- 
teously, 

“ Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I will  do  my 
deed. 

Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou 
wilt  find 

My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers  wrho  lay 

Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the 
King’s  son.” 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those 
long  loops 

Wherethro’  the  serpent  river  coil’d, 
they  came. 

Rough-thicketed  were  the  banks  and 
steep ; the  stream 

Full,  narrow ; this  a bridge  of  single 
arc 

Took  at  a leap ; and  on  the  further 
side 

Arose  a silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 

In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily 
in  hue, 

Save  that  the  dome  was  purple,  and 
above, 

Crimson,  a slender  banneret  fluttering. 


And  therebefore  the  lawless  warrior 
paced 

Unarm’d,  and  calling,  “ Damsel,  is 
this  he, 

The  champion  thou  hast  brought  from 
Arthur’s  hall  'i 

For  whom  we  let  thee  pass.”  “Nay, 
nay,”  she  said, 

“ Sir  Morning-Star.  The  King  in  utter 
scorn 

Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent 
thee  here 

His  kitchen-knave  : and  look  thou  to 
thyself : 

See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly, 

And  slay  thee  unarm’d : he  is  not 
knight  but  knave.” 

Then  at  his  call,  “ 0 daughters  of 
the  Dawn, 

And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star, 
approach, 

Arm  me,”  from  out  the  silken  curtain- 
folds 

Bare-footed  and  bare-headed  three 
fair  girls 

In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came  : their 
feet 

In  dewy  grasses  glisten’d;  and  the 
hair 

All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with 
gem 

Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine. 

These  arm’d  him  in  blue  arms,  and 
gave  a shield 

Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning 
star. 

And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the 
knight, 

Who  stood  a moment  ere  his  horse 
was  brought, 

Glorying ; and  in  the  stream  beneath 
him, shone 

Immingled  with  Heaven’s  azure  wav 
eringly, 

The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked 
feet, 

His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the 
star. 

Then  she  that  watch’d  him, 
“ Wherefore  stare  ye  so  ? 


226 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear : there  yet  is 
time : 

Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to 
horse. 

Who  will  cry  shame  ? Thou  art  not 
knight  but  knave.” 

Said  Gareth,  “ Damsel,  whether 
knave  or  knight, 

Far  liefer  had  I fight  a score  of  times 

Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  re- 
vile. 

Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who 
fights  for  thee ; 

But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they 
send 

That  strength  of  anger  thro’  mine 
arms,  I know 

That  I shall  overthrow  him.” 

And  he  that  bore 

The  star,  being  mounted,  cried  from 
o’er  the  bridge, 

“ A kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn 
of  me  ! 

Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn 
with  scorn. 

For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further 
wrong 

Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his 
horse 

And  arms,  and  so  return  him  to  the 
King. 

Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly, 
knave. 

Avoid  : for  it  beseemeth  not  a knave 

To  ride  with  such  a lady.” 

“ Dog,  thou  liest. 

I spring  from  loftier  lineage  than 
thine  own.” 

He  spake , and  all  at  fiery  speed  the 
two 

Shock’d  on  the  central  bridge,  and 
either  spear 

Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight 
at  once, 

Hurl’d  as  a stone  from  out  of  a cata- 
pult 

Beyond  his  horse’s  crupper  and  the 
bridge, 


Fell,  as  if  dead;  but  quickly  rose  and 
drew, 

And  Gareth  lash’d  so  fiercely  with  his 
brand 

He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down 
the  bridge, 

The  damsel  crying,  “Well-stricken, 
kitchen-knave ! ” 

Till  Gareth’s  shield  was  cloven ; but 
one  stroke 

Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on 
the  ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall’n,  “ Take  not  my 
life : I yield.” 

And  Gareth,  “ So  this  damsel  ask  it 
of  me 

Good  — I accord  it  easily  as  a grace.” 

She  reddening,  “ Insolent  scullion  : I 
of  thee  ? 

I bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask’d!  ” 

“Then  shall  he  die.”  And  Gareth 
there  unlaced 

His  helmet  as  to  slay  him,  but  she 
shriek’d, 

“Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to 
slay 

One  nobler  than  thyself.”  “ Damsel, 
thy  charge 

Is  an  abounding  pleasure  to  me. 
Knight, 

Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command. 
Arise 

And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur’s  hall, 
and  say 

His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee. 
See  thou  crave 

His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his 
laws. 

Myself,  when  I return,  will  plead  for 
thee. 

Thy  shield  is  mine  — farewell ; and, 
damsel,  thou, 

Lead,  and  I follow.” 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 

Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake, 
“ Methought, 

Knave,  when  I watch’d  thee  striking 
on  the  bridge 

The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon 
me 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


227 


A little  faintlier:  but  the  wind  hath 
changed : 

I scent  it  twenty-fold.”  And  then  she 
sang, 

“‘0  morning  star’  (not  that  tall  felon 
there 

Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 

Or  some  device,  hast  foully  over- 
thrown), 

‘0  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the 
blue, 

O star,  my  morning  dream  hath 
proven  true, 

Smile  sweetly,  thou ! my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.' 

“ But  thou  begone,  take  counsel, 
and  away, 

For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a 
ford  — 

The  second  brother  in  their  fool’s 
parable  — 

Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to 
boot. 

Care  not  for  shame : thou  art  not 
knight  but  knave.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer’d, 
laughingly, 

“ Parables  ? Hear  a parable  of  the 
knave. 

When  I was  kitchen-knave  among  the 
rest 

Fierce  wras  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my 
co-mates 

Own’d  a rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast 
his  coat, 

‘ Guard  it,’  and  there  was  none  to 
meddle  with  it. 

And  such  a coat  art  thou,  and  thee 
the  King 

Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a dog 
am  I, 

To  worry,  and  not  to  flee  — and  — 
knight  or  knave  — 

The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as 
full  knight 

Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 

Toward  thy  sister’s  freeing.” 

“ Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 

Ay,  knave,  because  thou  strikest  as  a 
knight, 


Being  but  knave,  I hate  thee  all  the 
more.” 

“ Fair  damsel,  you  should  worship 
me  the  more, 

That,  being  but  knave,  I throw  thine 
enemies.” 

“ Ay,  ay,”  she  said,  “ but  thou  shalt 
meet  thy  match.” 

So  when  they  touch’d  the  second 
river-loop, 

Huge  on  a huge  red  horse,  and  all  in 
mail 

Burnish’d  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noon- 
day Sun 

Beyond  a raging  shallow.  As  if  the 
flower, 

That  blows  a globe  of  after  arrowlets, 

Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash’d 
the  fierce  shield, 

All  sun  ; and  Gareth’s  eyes  had  flying 
blots 

Before  them  when  he  turn’d  from 
watching  him. 

He  from  beyond  the  roaring  shallow 
roar’d, 

“ What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my 
marches  here  ? ” 

And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill’d 
again, 

“ Here  is  a kitchen-knave  from 
Arthur’s  hall 

Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and 
hath  his  arms.” 

“ Ugh ! ” cried  the  Sun,  and  vizoring 
up  a red 

And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolish- 
ness, 

Push’d  horse  across  the  foamings  of 
the  ford, 

Whom  Gareth  met  midstream : no 
room  was  there 

For  lance  or  tourney-skill  : four 

strokes  they  struck 

With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty ; 
the  new  knight 

Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ; but  as 
the  Sun 

Heaved  up  a ponderous  arm  to  strike 
the  fifth, 


228 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the 
stream,  the  stream 

Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash’d 
away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart 
the  ford  ; 

So  drew  him  home ; but  he  that  fought 
no  more, 

As  being  all  bone-batter’d  on  the  rock, 

Yielded ; and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the 
King. 

“ Myself  when  I return  will  plead  for 
thee.” 

“ Lead,  and  I follow.”  Quietly  she 
led. 

“ Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel, 
changed  again  ? ” 

“ Nay,  not  a point : nor  art  thou  victor 
here. 

There  lies  a ridge  of  slate  across  the 
ford; 

His  horse  thereon  stumbled  — ay,  for 
I saw  it. 

“ ‘ O Sun  ’ (not  this  strong  fool 
whom  thou,  Sir  Knave, 

Hast  overthrown  thro’  mere  unhappi- 
ness), 

‘ 0 Sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or 
pain, 

O moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 

Shine  sweetly:  twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.’ 

“ What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong 
or  of  love  ? 

Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly 
born, 

Thou  hast  a pleasant  presence.  Yea, 
perchance,  — 

“ ‘ 0 dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the 
sun, 

O dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is 
done, 

Blow  sweetly : twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.’ 

“ What  knowest  thou  of  flowers, 
except,  belike. 


To  garnish  meats  with  ? hath  not  our 
good  King 

Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of 
kitchendom, 

A foolish  love  for  flowers  ? what  stick 
ye  round 

The  pasty  ? wherewithal  deck  the 
boar’s  head  ? 

Flowers'?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rose- 
maries and  bay. 

“ ‘ O birds,  that  warble  to  the  morn- 
ing sky, 

O birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes 
by, 

Sing  sweetly : twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.’ 

“What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark, 
mavis,  merle, 

Linnet  ? what  dream  ye  when  they 
utter  forth 

May-music  growing  with  the  growing 
light, 

Their  sweet  sun-worship  ? these  be  for 
the  snare 

(So  runs  thy  fancy)  these  be  for  the 
spit, 

Larding  and  basting.  See  thou  have 
not  now 

Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and 

fly- 

There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their 
allegory.” 

For  there  beyond  a bridge  of  treble 
bow, 

All  in  a rose-red  from  the  west,  and 
all 

Naked  it  seem’d,  and  glowing  in  the 
broad 

Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,  the 
knight, 

That  named  himself  the  Star  of 
Evening,  stood. 

And  Gareth,  “ Wherefore  waits  the 
madman  there 

Naked  in  open  day  shine  ? ” “ Nay,” 
she  cried, 

“Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden’d 
skins 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


229 


That  fit  him  like  his  own ; and  so  ye 
cleave 

His  armor  off  him,  these  will  turn  the 
blade.” 

Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o’er 
the  bridge, 

“ O brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here  so 
low  ? 

Thy  ward  is  higher  up  : but  have  ye 
slain 

The  damsel’s  champion  ? ” and  the 
damsel  cried, 

“No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from 
Arthur’s  heaven 

With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 

For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have 
gone  down 

Before  this  youth ; and  so  wilt  thou, 
Sir  Star; 

Art  thou  not  old  ? ” 

“ Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 

Old,  with  the  might  and  breath  of 
twenty  boys.” 

Said  Gareth,  “ Old,  and  over-bold  in 
brag ! 

But  that  same  strength  which  threw 
the  Morning  Star 

Can  throw  the  Evening.” 

Then  that  other  blew 

A hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 

“ Approach  and  arm  me ! ” With  slow 
steps  from  out 

An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many- 
stain’d 

Pavilion,  forth  a grizzled  damsel 
came, 

And  arm’d  him  in  old  arms,  and 
brought  a helm 

With  but  a drying  evergreen  for  crest, 

And  gave  a shield  whereon  the  Star  of 
Even 

Half-tarnish’d  and  half-bright,  his 
emblem,  shone. 

But  when  it  glitter’d  o’er  the  saddle- 
bow, 

They  madly  hurl’d  together  on  the 
bridge ; i 


And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted, 
drew, 

There  met  liim  drawn,  and  overthrew 
him  again, 

But  up  like  fire  he  started:  and  as 
oft 

As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on 
his  knees, 

So  many  a time  he  vaulted  up  again ; 

Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  great 
heart, 

Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in 
vain, 

Labor’d  within  him,  for  he  seem’d  as 
one 

That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 

To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a life, 

But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and 
cry, 

“Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst 
not  put  us  down ! ” 

He  half  despairs ; so  Gareth  seem’d  to 
strike 

Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the 
while, 

“Well  done,  knave-knight,  well 
stricken,  O good  knight' 
knave  — 

O knave,  as  noble  as  any  of  all  the 
knights  — 

Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.  I have 
prophesied  — 

Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  Table 
Bound — 

His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  hard- 
en’d skin  — 

Strike  — strike  — the  wind  will  never 
change  again.” 

And  ^Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier 
smote, 

And  hew’d  great  pieces  of  his  armor 
off  him, 

But  lash’d  in  vain  against  the  harden’d 
skin, 

And  could  not  wholly  bring  him 
under,  more 

Than  loud  Southwesterns,  rolling 
ridge  on  ridge, 

The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips 
and  springs 

For  ever;  till  at  length  Sir  Gareth’s 
brand 


230 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Clash’d  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the 
hilt. 

“ I have  thee  now ; ” but  forth  that 
other  sprang, 

And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his 
wiry  arms 

Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his 
mail, 

Strangled,  but  straining  ev’n  his  utter- 
most 

Cast,  and  so  hurl’d  him  headlong  o’er 
the  bridge 

Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and 
cried, 

“ Lead,  and  I follow.” 

But  the  damsel  said, 

“ I lead  no  longer ; ride  thou  at  my 
side ; 

Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen- 
knaves. 

“ ‘ O trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy 
plain, 

O rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain, 

Shine  sweetly : thrice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.’ 

“ Sir,  — and,  good  faith,  I fain  had 
added  — Knight, 

But  that  I heard  thee  call  thyself  a 
knave,  — 

Shamed  am  I that  I so  rebuked, 
reviled, 

Missaid  thee ; noble  I am ; and 
thought  the  King 

Scorn’d  me  and  mine ; and  now  thy 
pardon,  friend, 

For  thou  hast  ever  answer’d  cour- 
teously, 

And  wholly  bold  thou  art,  and  meek 
withal 

As  any  of  Arthur’s  best,  but,  being 
knave, 

Hast  mazed  my  wit : I marvel  what 
thou  art. 

“ Damsel,”  he  said,  “ you  be  not  all 
to  blame, 

Saving  that  you  mistrusted  our  good 
King 


Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  you, 
asking,  one 

Not  fit  to  cope  your  quest.  You  said 
your  say ; 

Mine  answer  was  my  deed.  Good 
sooth ! I hold 

He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half -man, 
nor  meet 

To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who 
lets 

His  heart  be  stirr’d  with  any  foolish 
heat 

At  any  gentle  damsel’s  waywardness. 

Shamed  ? care  not ! thy  foul  sayings 
fought  for  me : 

And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair, 
methinks 

There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot, 
his  great  self, 

Hath  force  to  quell  me.” 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 

When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  mel- 
ancholy, 

Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretch- 
ing, dreams 

Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool, 

Then  turn’d  the  noble  damsel  smiling 
at  him, 

And  told  him  of  a cavern  hard  at 
hand, 

Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and 
good  red  wine 

Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyo- 
nors 

Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited 
him. 

Anon  they  past  a narrow  comb 
wherein 

Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures, 
' knights  on  horse 

Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly-wan- 
ing hues. 

“ Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a hermit  once 
was  here, 

Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion’d  on 
the  rock 

The  war  of  Time  against  the  soul  of 
man. 

And  yon  four  fools  have  suck’d  their 
allegory 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


231 


From  these  damp  walls,  and  taken 
but  the  form. 

Know  ye  not  these  ? ” and  Gareth 
lookt  and  read  — 

In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 

Hath  left  crag-carven  o’er  the  stream- 
ing Gelt  — 

“ Phosphorus,”  then  “ Meridies  ” — 
“ Hesperus  ” — 

“Nox”  — “Mors,”  beneath  five  fig- 
ures, armed  men, 

Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward 
all, 

And  running  down  the  Soul,  a Shape 
that  fled 

With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment  and 
loose  hair, 

For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit’s 
cave. 

“Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it. 
Look, 

Who  comes  behind  'i  ” 

For  one  — delay’d  at  first 

Thro’  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 

To  Camelot,  then  by  what  thereafter 
chanced, 

The  damsel’s  headlong  error  thro’  the 
wood  — 

Sir  Lancelot,  having  swum  the  river- 
loops  — 

His  blue  shield-lions  cover’d  — softly 
drew 

Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw 
the  star 

Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth’s  turning  to 
him,  cried, 

“ Stay,  felon-knight,  I avenge  me  for 
my  friend.” 

And  Gareth  crying  prick’d  against  the 
cry ; 

But  when  they  closed  — in  a moment 
— at  one  touch 

Of  that  skill’d  spear,  the  wonder  of 
the  world  — 

Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 

That  when  he  found  the  grass  within 
his  hands 

He  laugh’d;  the  laughter  jarr’d  upon 
Lynette : 

Harshly  she  ask’d  him,  “ Shamed  and 
overthrown, 


And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen- 
knave, 

Why  laugh  ye  1 that  ye  blew  your 
boast  in  vain  ? ” 

“Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the 
son 

Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Bel- 
licent, 

And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford, 

And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown 
by  whom 

I know  not,  all  thro’  mere  unhappi- 
ness — 

Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappi- 
ness — 

Out,  sword ; we  are  thrown  ! ” And 
Lancelot  answer’d,  “ Prince, 

O Gareth  — thro’  the  mere  unhappi- 
ness 

Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee,  not  to 
harm, 

Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee 
whole, 

As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted 
him.” 


Then  Gareth,  “Thou — Lancelot! 
— thine  the  hand 

That  threw  me  ? An  some  chance  to 
mar  the  boast 

Thy  brethren  of  thee  make  — which 
could  not  chance  — 

Had  sent  thee  down  before  a lesser 
spear, 

Shamed  had  I been,  and  sad  — O 
Lancelot  — thou  ! ” 


Whereat  the  maiden,  petulant, 
“ Lancelot, 

Why  came  ye  not,  when  call’d  1 and 
wherefore  now 

Come  ye,  not  call’d  1 I gloried  in  my 
knave, 

Who  being  still  rebuked,  would  answer 
still 

Courteous  as  any  knight — but  now, 
if  knight, 

The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool’d 
and  trick’d, 

And  only  wondering  wherefore  play’d 
upon : 


232 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  doubtful  whether  I and  mine  be 
scorn’d. 

Where  should  be  truth  if  not  in 
Arthur’s  hall, 

In  Arthur’s  presence  'i  Knight, 
knave,  prince  and  fool, 

I hate  thee  and  for  ever.” 


And  Lancelot  said, 

“ Blessed  be  thou,  Sir  Gareth ! knight 
art  thou 

To  the  King’s  best  wish.  O damsel, 
be  you  wise 

To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  over- 
thrown ? 

Thrown  have  I been,  nor  once,  but 
many  a time. 

Victor  from  vanquish’d  issues  at  the 
last, 

And  overthrower  from  being  over- 
thrown. 

With  sword  we  have  not  striven  ; and 
thy  good  horse 

And  thou  are  weary ; yet  not  less  I 
felt 

Thy  manhood  thro’  that  wearied  lance 
of  thine. 

Well  hast  thou  done;  for  all  the 
stream  is  freed, 

And  thou  hast  wreak’d  his  justice  on 
his  foes, 

And  when  reviled,  hast  answer’d 
graciously, 

And  makest  merry  when  overthrown. 
Prince,  Knight, 

Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our 
Table  Round ! ” 


And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette 
he  told 

The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she 
said, 

“ Ay  well  — ay  well  — for  worse  than 
being  fool’d 

Of  others,  is  to  fool  one’s  self.  A 
cave, 

Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats 
and  drinks 

And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for 
fire. 


But  all  about  it  flies  a honeysuckle. 

Seek,  till  we  find.”  And  when  they 
sought  and  found, 

Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  ancl  all  his 
life 

Past  into  sleep  ; on  whom  the  maiden 
gazed. 

“ Sound  sleep  be  thine ! sound  cause 
to  sleep  hast  thou. 

Wake  lusty!  seem  I not  as  tender  to 
him 

As  any  mother  ? Ay,  but  such  a one 

As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her 
child, 

And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him 
asleep  — 

Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the 
honeysuckle 

In  the  hush’d  night,  as  if  the  world 
were  one 

Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentle- 
ness ! 

O Lancelot,  Lancelot  ” — and  she 
clapt  her  hands  — 

“ Full  merry  am  I to  find  my  goodly 
knave 

Is  knight  and  noble.  See  now,  sworn 
have  I, 

Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me 
pass, 

To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle 
with  him. 

Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee 
first; 

Who  doubts  thee  victor  ? so  will  my 
knight-knave 

Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accom- 
plishment.” 


Said  Lancelot,  “ Peradventure  he, 
you  name, 

May  know  my  shield.  Let  Gareth, 
an  he  will, 

Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my 
charger,  fresh, 

Not  to  be  spurr’d,  loving  the  battle  as 
well 

As  he  that  rides  him.”  “ Lancelot- 
like,” she  said, 

“ Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as 
in  all.” 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


233 


And  Gareth,  wakening,  fiercely 
clutch’d  the  shield ; 

“ Ramp  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on 
whom  all  spears 

Are  rotten  sticks ! ye  seem  agape  to 
roar ! 

Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your 
lord ! — 

Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I care 
for  you. 

0 noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on 

these 

Streams  virtue  — fire  — thro’ one  that 
will  not  shame 

Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under 
shield. 

Hence  : let  us  go.” 

Silent  the  silent  field 

They  traversed.  Arthur’s  harp  tho’ 
summer-wan, 

In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds, 
allured 

The  glance  of  Gareth  dreaming  on 
his  liege. 

A star  shot : “ Lo,”  said  Gareth,  “ the 
foe  falls  ! ” 

An  owl  whoopt : “ Hark  the  victor 
pealing  there ! ” 

Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 

Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent 
him,  crying, 

“ Yield,  yield  him  this  again : ’tis  he 
must  fight : 

1 curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro’  yes- 

terday 

Reviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  on 
Lancelot  now 

To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield : won- 
ders ye  have  done ; 

Miracles  ye  cannot : here  is  glory  enow 

In  having  flung  the  three  : I see  thee 
maim’d, 

Mangled : I swear  thou  canst  not  fling 
the  fourth.” 

“ And  wherefore,  damsel  ? tell  me 
all  ye  know. 

You  cannot  scare  me ; nor  rough  face, 
or  voice, 

Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless 
savagery 

Appal  me  from  the  quest.” 


“ Nay,  Prince,”  she  cried, 

“God  wot,  I never  look’d  upon  the 
face, 

Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by 
day; 

But  watch’d  him  have  I like  a phan- 
tom pass 

Chilling  the  night : nor  have  I heard 
the  voice. 

Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a 
page 

Who  came  and  went,  and  still  re- 
ported him 

As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of 
ten, 

And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  mas- 
sacring 

Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl — yea,  the 
soft  babe ! 

Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow’d 
infant  flesh, 

Monster ! O Prince,  I went  for  Lance- 
lot first, 

The  quest  is  Lancelot’s  : give  him 
back  the  shield.” 


Said  Gareth  laughing,  “ An  he  fight 
for  this, 

Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man  : 
Thus  — and  not  else  ! ” 


But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 

All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 

When  one  might  meet  a mightier  than 
himself ; 

How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance, 
sword  and  shield, 

And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force 
might  fail 

With  skill  and  fineness.  Instant  were 
his  words. 


Then  Gareth,  “Here  be  rules.  I 
know  but  one  — 

To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to 
win. 

Yet  have  I watch’d  thee  victor  in  the 
joust, 

And  seen  thy  way.”  “ Heaven  help 
thee,”  sigh’d  Lynette. 


234 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Then  for  a space,  and  under  cloud 
that  grew 

To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars, 
they  rode 

In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey 
halt, 

Lifted  an  arm,  and  softly  whisper’d, 
“There.” 

And  all  the  three  were  silent  seeing, 
pitch’d 

Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 

A huge  pavilion  like  a mountain  peak 

Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  on  the 
marge, 

Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a long 
black  horn 

Beside  it  hanging ; which  Sir  Gareth 
graspt, 

And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder 
him, 

^ent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro’  all 
the  horn. 

Ccho’d  the  walls  ; a light  twinkled ; 
anon 

Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again 
he  blew  ; 

Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up 
and  down 

And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows 
past ; 

Till  high  above  him,  circled  with  her 
maids, 

The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a window  stood, 

Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to 
him 

White  hands,  and  courtesy;  but  when 
the  Prince 

Three  times  had  blown  — after  long 
hush  — at  last  — 

The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 

Thro’  those  black  foldings,  that  which 
housed  therein. 

High  on  a nightblack  horse,  in  night- 
black  arms, 

With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren 
ribs  of  Death, 

And  crown’d  with  fleshless  laughter  — 
some  ten  steps  — 

In  the  half-light  — thro’  the  dim  dawn 
— advanced 

The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and 
spake  no  word. 


But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indig- 
nantly, 

“Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the 
strength  of  ten, 

Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy 
God  hath  given, 

But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee 
more, 

Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 

Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with, 
and  the  clod, 

Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with 
mantling  flowers 

As  if  for  pity  'i  ” But  he  spake  no 
word ; 

Which  set  the  horror  higher : a maiden 
swoon’d ; 

The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands 
and  wept, 

As  doom’d  to  be  the  bride  of  Night 
and  Death ; 

Sir  Gareth’s  head  prickled  beneath  his 
helm  ; 

And  ev’n  Sir  Lancelot  thro’  his  warm 
blood  felt 

Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark’d  him 
were  aghast. 

At  once  Sir  Lancelot’s  charger 
fiercely  neigh’d, 

And  Death’s  dark  war-horse  bounded 
forward  with  him. 

Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the 
terror,  saw 

That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and 
slowly  rose. 

But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split 
the  skull. 

Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and 
lay. 

Then  with  a stronger  buffet  he  clove 
the  helm 

As  throughly  as  the  skull ; and  out 
from  this 

Issued  the  bright  face  of  a blooming 
boy 

Fresh  as  a flower  new-born,  and  crying, 
“ Knight, 

Slay  me  not : my  three  brethren  bade 
me  do  it, 

To  make  a horror  all  about  the 
house, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


235 


And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyon- 
ors. 

They  never  dream’d  the  passes  would 
be  past.” 

Answer’d  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one 

Not  many  a moon  his  younger,  “ My 
fair  child, 

What  madness  made  thee  challenge 
the  chief  knight 

Of  Arthur’s  hall?  ” “ Fair  Sir,  they 
bade  me  do  it. 

They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the 
King’s  friend, 

They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere 
on  the  stream, 

They  never  dream’d  the  passes  could 
be  past.” 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from 
underground ; 

And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house, 
with  dance 

And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over 
Death, 

As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 

And  horrors  only  proven  a blooming 
boy. 

So  large  mirth  lived  and  Gareth  won 
the  quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older 
times 

Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 

But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 

The  brave  Geraint,  a knight  of 
Arthur’s  court, 

A tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 

Of  that  great  Order  of  the  Table 
Round, 

Had  married  Enid,  Yniol’s  only  child, 

And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light 
of  Heaven. 

And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 

At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by 
night 

With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so 
loved  Geraint 


To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day, 

In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in 
gems. 

And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband’s 
eye, 

Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in 
a state 

Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted 
him 

In  some  fresh  splendor ; and  the  Queen 
herself, 

Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service 
done, 

Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own 
white  hands 

Array’d  and  deck’d  her,  as  the  love- 
liest, 

Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the 
court. 

And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with 
true  heart 

Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the 
best 

And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 

And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so 
close, 

Long  in  their  common  love  rejoiced 
Geraint. 

But  when  a rumor  rose  about  the 
Queen, 

Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 

Tho’  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet 
was  heard 

Th.e  world’s  loud  whisper  breaking 
into  storm, 

Not  less  Geraint  believed  it ; and  there 
fell 

A horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 

Thro’  that  great  tenderness  for  Guin- 
evere, 

Had  suffer’d,  or  should  suffer  any 
taint 

In  nature : wherefore  going  to  the 
King, 

He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  prince- 
dom lay 

Close  on  the  borders  of  a territory, 

Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff 
knights, 

Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 

Of  Justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a 
law : 


236 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


And  therefore,  till  the  King  himself 
should  please 

To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 
his  realm, 

He  craved  a fair  permission  to  depart, 
And  there  defend  his  marches;  and 
the  King 

Mused  for  a little  on  his  plea,  but,  last, 
Allowing  it,  the  Prince  and  Enid  rode, 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them,  to 
the  shores 

Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 
land ; 

Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was 
wife 

True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 
He  compass’d  her  with  sweet  observ- 
ances 

And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and 
grew 

Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  King, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt, 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 
Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its 
cares. 

And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to 
her. 

And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they 
met 

In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  com- 
panies, 

Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of 
him 

As  of  a prince  whose  manhood  was  all 
gone, 

And  molten  down  in  mere  uxorious- 
ness. 

And  this  she  gather’d  from  the  peo- 
ples eyes  : 

This  too  the  women  who  attired  her 
head, 

To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  bound- 
less love, 

Told  Enid,  and  they  sadden’d  her  the 
more : 

And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell 
Geraint, 

But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy ; 
While  he  that  watch’d  her  sadden,  was 
the  more 

Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a taint. 


At  last,  it  chanced  that  on  a summer 
morn 

(They  sleeping  each  by  either)  the 
new  sun 

Beat  thro’  the  blindless  casement  of 
the  room, 

And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his 
dreams ; 

Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet 
aside, 

And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his 
throat, 

The  massive  square  of  his  heroic 
breast, 

And  arms  on  which  the  standing 
muscle  sloped, 

As  slopes  a wild  brook  o’er  a little 
stone, 

Running  too  vehemently  to  break 
upon  it. 

And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  the 
couch, 

Admiring  him,  and  thought  within 
herself, 

Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as 
he? 

Then,  like  a shadow,  past  the  people’s 
talk 

And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 

Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over 
him, 

Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously  she 
said : 

“ O noble  breast  and  all-puissant 
arms, 

Am  I the  cause,  I the  poor  cause  that 
men 

Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force 
is  gone? 

I am  the  cause,  because  I dare  not 
speak 

And  tell  him  what  I think  and  what 
they  say. 

And  yet  I hate  that  he  should  linger 
here ; 

I cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his 
name. 

Far  liefer  had  I gird  his  harness  on 
him, 

And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand 

by, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


237 


And  watch  his  mightful  hand  striking 
great  blows 

At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the 
world. 

Far  better  were  I laid  in  the  dark 
earth, 

Not  hearing  anymore  his  noble  voice, 

Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear 
arms, 

And  darken’d  from  the  high  light  in 
his  eyes, 

Than  that  my  lord  thro’  me  should 
suffer  shame. 

Am  I so  bold,  and  could  I so  stand 

by, 

And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the 
strife, 

Or  maybe  pierced  to  death  before 
mine  eyes, 

And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I 
think, 

And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his 
force 

Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy  1 

O me,  I fear  that  I am  no  true  wife.” 


Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she 
spoke, 

And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made 
her  weep 

True  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked 
breast, 

And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great 
mischance 

He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later 
words, 

And  that  she  fear’d  she  was  not  a true 
wife. 

And  then  he  thought,  “ In  spite  of  all 
my  care, 

For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  al1 
my  pains, 

She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and  I see  her 

Weeping  for  some  gay  knight  in 
Arthur’s  hall.” 

Then  tho’  he  loved  and  reverenced 
her  too  much 

To  dream  she  could  be  guilty  of  foul 
act, 

Right  thro’  his  manful  breast  darted 
the  pang 


That  makes  a man,  in  the  sweet  face 
of  her 

Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  mis- 
erable. 

At  this  he  hurl’d  his  huge  limbs  out 
of  bed, 

And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake 
and  cried, 

“ My  charger  and  her  palfrey ; ” then 
to  her, 

“ I will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness ; 

For  tho’  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to 
win, 

I have  not  fall’n  so  low  as  some  would 
wish. 

And  thou,  put  on  thy  worst  and  mean- 
est dress 

And  ride  with  me.”  And  Enid  ask’d, 
amazed, 

“If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her 
fault.” 

But  he,  “ I charge  thee,  ask  not,  but 
obey.” 

Then  she  bethought  her  of  a faded 
silk, 

A faded  mantle  and  a faded  veil, 

And  moving  toward  a cedarn  cabinet, 

Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  rever- 
ently 

With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between 
the  folds, 

She  took  them,  and  array’d  herself 
therein, 

Remembering  when  first  he  came  on 
her 

Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 
her  in  it, 

And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the 
dress, 

And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 

Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 


For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide 
before 

Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 

There  on  a day,  he  sitting  high  in 
hall, 

Before  him  came  a forester  of  Dean, 

Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a 
hart 


238 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky- 
white, 

First  seen  that  day  : these  things  he 
told  the  King. 

Then  the  good  King  gave  order  to  let 
blow 

His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow 
morn. 

And  when  the  Queen  petition’d  for  his 
leave 

To  see  the  hunt,  allow’d  it  easily. 

So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were 
gone. 

But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn, 

Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming 
of  her  love 

For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the 
hunt ; 

But  rose  at  last,  a single  maiden  with 
her, 

Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and 
gain’d  the  wood ; 

There,  on  a little  knoll  beside  it, 
stay’d 

Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds;  but 
heard  instead 

A sudden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince 
Geraint, 

Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting- 
dress 

Nor  weapon,  save  a golden-hilted 
brand, 

Came  quickly  flashing  thro’  the  shal- 
low ford 

Behind  them,  and  so  gallop’d  up  the 
knoll. 

A purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 

There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest 
gold, 

Sway’d  round  about  him,  as  he  gal- 
lop’d up 

To  join  them,  glancing  like  a dragon- 

fly 

In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 

Low  bow’d  the  tributary  Prince,  and 
she, 

Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all 
grace 

Of  womanhood  and  queenhood, 
answer’d  him  : 

!<  Late,  late,  Sir  Prince,”  she  said, 
“ later  than  we  ! ” 


“Yea,  noble  Queen,”  he  answer’d, 
“ and  so  late 

That  I but  come  like  you  to  see  the 
hunt, 

Not  join  it.”  “ Therefore  wait  with 
me,”  she  said ; 

“ For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere, 

There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall 
hear  the  hounds : 

Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our 
feet.” 

And  while  they  listen’d  for  the  dis- 
tant hunt, 

And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 

King  Arthur’s  hound  of  deepest 
mouth,  there  rode 

Full  slowly  by  a knight,  lady,  and 
dwarf ; 

Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg’d  latest,  and 
the  knight 

Had  vizor  up,  and  show’d  a youthful 
face, 

Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  linea- 
ments. 

And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his 
face 

In  the  King’s  hall,  desired  his  name, 
and  sent 

Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the 
dwarf ; 

Who  being  vicious,  old  and  irritable, 

And  doubling  all  his  master’s  vice  of 
pride, 

Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should 
not  know. 

“ Then  will  I ask  it  of  himself,”  she 
said. 

“ Nay,  by  my  faith,-  thou  shalt  not,” 
cried  the  dwarf ; 

“ Thou  art  not  worthy  ev’n  to  speak 
of  him ; ” 

And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward 
the  knight, 

Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she 
return’d 

Indignant  to  the  Queen ; whereat 
Geraint 

Exclaiming,  “ Surely  I will  learn  the 
name,” 

Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask’d 
it  of  him, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


239 


Who  answer’d  as  before;  and  when 
the  Prince 

Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward 
the  knight, 

Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut 
his  cheek. 

The  Prince’s  blood  spirted  upon  the 
scarf, 

Dyeing  it ; and  his  quick,  instinctive 
hand 

Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him : 

But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manful- 
ness 

And  pure  nobility  of  temperament, 

Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a worm, 
refrain’d 

From  ev’n  a word,  and  so  returning 
said: 

“ I will  avenge  this  insult,  noble 
Queen, 

Done  in  your  maiden’s  person  to  your- 
self : 

And  I will  track  this  vermin  to  their 
earths : 

For  tho’  I ride  unarm’d,  I do  not  doubt 

To  find,  at  some  place  I shall  come  at, 
arms 

On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge  ; and,  being 
found, 

Then  will  I fight  him,  and  will  break 
his  pride, 

And  on  the  third  day  will  again  be 
here, 

So  that  I be  not  fall’n  in  fight.  Fare- 
well.” 

“Farewell,  fair  Prince,”  answer’d 
the  stately  Queen. 

“Be  prosperous  in  .this  journey,  as  in 
all; 

And  may  you  light  on  all  things  that 
you  love, 

And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first 
you  love : 

But  ere  you  wed  with  any,  bring  your 
bride, 

And  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a 
king, 

Yea,  tho’  she  were  a beggar  from  the 
hedge, 

Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like 
the  sun.” 


And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking 
that  he  heard 

The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far 
horn, 

A little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 

A little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode, 

By  ups  and  downs,  thro’  many  a grassy 
glade 

And  valley,  with  fixt  eye  following 
the  three. 

At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of 
wood, 

And  climb’d  upon  a fair  and  even 
ridge, 

And  show’d  themselves  against  the 
sky,  and  sank. 

And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  under 
neath 

Beheld  the  long  street  of  a little  town 

In  a long  valley,  on  one  side 
whereof, 

White  from  the  mason’s  hand,  a for- 
tress rose ; 

And  on  one  side  a castle  in  decay, 

Beyond  a bridge  that  spann’d  a dry 
ravine  : 

And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a 
noise 

As  of  a broad  brook  o’er  a shingly  bed 

Brawling,  or  like  a clamor  of  the  rooks 

At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the 
night. 


And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the 
three, 

And  enter’d,  and  were  lost  behind  the 
walls. 

“ So,”  thought  Geraint,  “ I have 
track’d  him  to  his  earth.” 

And  down  the  long  street  riding 
wearily, 

Found  every  hostel  full,  and  every- 
where 

Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the 
hot  hiss 

And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth 
who  scour’d 

His  master’s  armor;  and  of  such  a 
one 

He  ask’d,  “What  means  the  tumult 
in  the  town  1 ” 


240 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Who  told  him,  scouring  still,  “ The 
sparrow-hawk ! ” 

Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient 
churl, 

Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping 
beam, 

Went  sweating  underneath  a sack  of 
corn, 

Ask’d  yet  once  more  what  meant  the 
hubbub  here  7 

Who  answer’d  gruffly,  “ Ugh ! the 
sparrow-hawk.” 

Then  riding  further  past  an  armorer’s, 

Who,  with  back  turn’d,  and  bow’d 
above  his  work, 

Sat  riveting  a helmet  on  his  knee, 

He  put  the  self-same  query,  but  the 
man 

Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at 
him,  said : 

“ Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  spar- 
row-hawk 

Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners.” 

Whereat  Geraint  flash’d  into  sudden 
spleen : 

“ A thousand  pips  eat  up  your  spar- 
row-hawk ! 

Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing’d  nothings 
peck  him  dead ! 

Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your 
bourg 

The  murmur  of  the  world ! What  is 
it  to  me  ? 

O wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and 
all, 

Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow- 
hawks  ! 

Speak,  if  ye  be  not  like  the  rest, 
hawk-mad, 

Where  can  I get  me  harborage  for 
the  night 7 

And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my 
enemy  7 Speak ! ” 

Whereat  the  armorer  turning  all 
amazed 

And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 

Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in 
hand 

And  answer’d,  “ Pardon  me,  0 stran- 
ger knight ; 

We  hold  a tourney  here  to-morrow 
morn, 


And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the 
work. 

Arms 7 truth  ! I know  not : all  are 
wanted  here. 

Harborage  7 truth,  good  truth,  I know 
not,  save, 

It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol’s,  o’er  the 
bridge 

Yonder.”  He  spoke  and  fell  to  work 
again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a little  spleen- 
ful yet, 

Across  the  bridge  that  spann’d  the 
dry  ravine. 

There  musing  sat  the  hoary-lieaded 
Earl, 

(His  dress  a suit  of  fray’d  magnifi- 
cence, 

Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and 
said: 

“ Whither,  fair  son  7 ” to  whom  Ger- 
aint replied, 

“ O friend,  I seek  a harborage  for  the 
night.” 

Then  Yniol,  “Enter  therefore  and 
partake 

The  slender  entertainment  of  a house 

Once  rich,  now  poor,  but  ever  open- 
door’d.” 

“ Thanks,  venerable  friend,”  replied 
Geraint ; 

“ So  that  you  do  not  serve  me  spar- 
row-hawks 

For  supper,  I will  enter,  I will  eat 

With  all  the  passion  of  a twelve 
hours’  fast.” 

Then  sigh’d  and  smiled  the  hoary- 
headed  Earl, 

And  answer’d,  “ Graver  cause  than 
yours  is  mine 

To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the 
sparrow-hawk : 

But  in,  go  in ; for  save  yourself  de- 
sire it, 

We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev’n  in 
jest.” 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle 
court, 

His  charger  trampling  many  a prickly 
star 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


241. 


Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken 
stones. 

He  look’d  and  saw  that  all  was 
ruinous. 

Here  stood  a shatter’d  archway 
plumed  with  fern ; 

And  here  had  fall’n  a great  part  of 
a tower, 

Whole,  like  a crag  that  tumbles  from 
the  cliff, 

And  like  a crag  was  gay  with  wilding 
flowers : 

And  high  above  a piece  of  turret  stair, 

Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were 
silent,  wound 

Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy- 
stems 

Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy- 
fibred  arms, 

And  suck’d  the  joining  of  the  stones, 
and  look’d 

& knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a 
grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle 
court, 

The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol’s  daughter, 
rang 

Clear  thro’  the  open  casement  of  the 
hall, 

Singing ; and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a 
bird, 

Heard  by  the  lander  in  a lonely  isle, 

Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird 
it  is 

That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and 
make 

Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the 
form  ; 

So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved 
Geraint ; 

And  made  him  like  a man  abroad  at 
morn 

When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of 
men 

Comes  flying  over  many  a windy  wave 

To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 

Breaks  from  a coppice  gemm’d  with 
green  and  red, 

And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a 
friend, 

Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands, 


To  think  or  say,  “ There  is  the  night- 
ingale ” ; 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought 
and  said, 

“ Here,  by  God’s  grace,  is  the  one 
voice  for  me.” 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang 
was  one 

Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid 
sang : 

“ Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel 
and  lower  the  proud  ; 

Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro’  sunshine, 
storm,  and  cloud ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 
nor  hate. 

“Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel 
with  smile  or  frown ; 

With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or 
down  ; 

Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great. 

“ Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of 
many  lands ; 

Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our 
own  hands  ; 

For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his 
fate. 

“ Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the 
staring  crowd ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in 
the  cloud ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 
nor  hate.” 

“ Hark,  by  the  bird’s  song  ye  may 
learn  the  nest,” 

Said  Yniol;  “enter  quickly.”  Enter- 
ing then, 

Right  o’er  a mount  of  newly-fallen 
stones, 

The  dusky-rafter’d  many-cobweb’d 
hall, 

He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim 
brocade ; 

And  near  her,  like  a blossom  vermeil- 
white, 


242 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


That  lightly  breaks  a faded  flower- 
sheath, 

Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded 
silk, 

Her  daughter.  In  a moment  thought 
Geraint, 

“ Here  by  God’s  rood  is  the  one  maid 
for  me.” 

But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary 
Earl : 

“ Enid,  the  good  knight’s  horse  stands 
in  the  court ; 

Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn, 
and  then 

Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and 
wine ; 

And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we 
may. 

Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great.” 

He  spake : the  Prince,  as  Enid  past 
him,  fain 

To  follow,  strode  a stride,  but  Yniol 
caught 

His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said, 
“ Forbear ! 

Rest ! the  good  house,  tho’  ruin’d,  O 
my  son, 

Endures  not  that  her  guest  should 
serve  himself.” 

And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the 
house 

Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the 
stall ; 

And  after  went  her  way  across  the 
bridge, 

And  reach’d  the  town,  and  while  the 
Prince  and  Earl 

Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with 
one, 

A youth,  that  following  with  a costrel 
bore 

The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh 
and  wine. 

And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to 
make  them  cheer, 

And  in  her  veil  unfolded,  manchet 
bread. 


And  then,  because  their  hall  must  alsc 
serve 

For  kitchen,  boil’d  the  flesh,  and 
spread  the  board, 

And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the 
three. 

And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  service- 
able, 

Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 

To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little 
thumb, 

That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it 
down  : 

But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 

For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his 
veins, 

Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 

On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work, 

Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky 
hall; 

Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary 
Earl : 


‘‘Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I pray  your 
courtesy ; 

This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he  ? tell 
me  of  him. 

His  name  ? but  no,  good  faith,  I will 
not  have  it : 

For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I 
saw 

Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  your 
town, 

White  from  the  mason’s  hand,  then 
have  I sworn 

From  his  own  lips  to  have  it  — I am 
Geraint 

Of  Devon — for  this  morning  when  the 
Queen 

Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  the 
name, 

His  dwarf,  a vicious  under-shapen 
thing, 

Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she 
return’d 

Indignant  to  the  Queen;  and  then  I 
swore 

That  I would  track  this  caitiff  to  his 
hold, 

And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  and 
have  it  of  him. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


243 


And  all  unarm’d  I rode,  and  thought 
to  find 

Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men 
are  mad ; 

They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their 
bourg 

For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round 
the  world ; 

They  would  not  hear  me  speak : hut 
if  ye  know 

Where  I can  light  on  arms,  or  if  your- 
self 

Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I 
have  sworn 

That  I will  break  his  pride  and  learn 
his  name, 

Avenging  this  great  insult  done  the 
Queen.” 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol,  “Art  thou 
he  indeed, 

Geraint,  a name  far-sounded  among 
men 

For  noble  deeds  ? and  truly  I,  when 
first 

I saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the 
bridge, 

Felt  ye  were  somewhat,  yea,  and  by 
your  state 

And  presence  might  have  guess’d  you 
one  of  those 

That  eat  in  Arthur’s  hall  at  Camelot. 

Nor  speak  I now  from  foolish  flat- 
tery; 

For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard 
me  praise 

Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  I 
paused 

Hath  ask’d  again,  and  ever  loved  to 
hear ; 

So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 

To  noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of 
wrong : 

0 never  yet  had  woman  such  a pair 

Of  suitors  as  this  maiden ; first  Lim- 

ours, 

A creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 
wine, 

Drunk  even  when  he  woo’d;  and  be 
he  dead 

1 know  not,  but  he  passed  to  the  wild 

land. 


The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow- 
hawk, 

My  curse,  my  nephew  — I will  not  let 
his  name 

Slip  from  my  lips  if  I can  help  it  — 
he, 

When  I that  knew  him  fierce  and  tur- 
bulent 

Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride 
awoke ; 

And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the 
mean, 

He  sow’d  a slander  in  the  common  ear, 

Affirming  that  his  father  left  him 
gold, 

And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  ren- 
der’d to  him ; 

Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men 
who  served 

About  my  person,  the  more  easily 

Because  my  means  were  somewhat 
broken  into 

Thro’  opemdoors  and  hospitality; 

Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in 
the  night 

Before  my  Enid’s  birthday,  sack’d  my 
house ; 

From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted 
me ; 

Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my 
friends, 

For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me 
yet ; 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle 
here, 

Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me 
soon  to  death, 

But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises 
me : 

And  I myself  sometimes  despise  my- 
self ; 

For  I have  let  men  be,  and  have  their 
way; 

Am  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used 
my  power : 

Nor  know  I whether  I be  very  base 

Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 

Or  very  foolish ; only  this  I know, 

That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 

I seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or 
limb, 

But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently.” 


244 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


“Well  said,  true  heart,”  replied 
Geraint,  “ but  arms, 

That  if  the  sparrow-hawk,  this 
nephew,  fight 

In  next  day’s  tourney  I may  break 
his  pride.” 

And  Yniol  answer’d,  “ Arms,  indeed, 
but  old 

And  rusty,  old  and  rusty,  Prince 
Geraint, 

Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  thine  ask- 
ing, thine. 

But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man 
tilt, 

Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be 
there. 

Two  forks  are  fixt  into  the  meadow 
ground, 

And  over  these  is  placed  a silver 
wand, 

And  over  that  a golden  sparrow-hawk, 

The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest 
there. 

And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in 
field 

Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his 
side, 

And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  there- 
upon, 

Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of 
bone 

Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with 
him, 

And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 

Has  earn’d  himself  the  name  of  spar- 
row-hawk. 

But  thou,  that  hast  no  lady,  canst  not 
fight.” 

To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  all 
bright  replied, 

Leaning  a little  toward  him,  “Thy 
leave ! 

Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O noble  host, 

For  this  dear  child,  because  I never 
saw, 

Tho’  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our 
time, 

Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so 
fair. 

And  if  I fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 


Untarnish’d  as  before ; but  if  I live, 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  ut- 
termost, 

As  I will  make  her  truly  my  true 
wife.” 


Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol’s 
heart 

Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better 
days. 

And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Enid 
there, 

(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had 
stol’n  away) 

But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  ten- 
derly 

And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he 
said, 

“ Mother,  a maiden  is  a tender  thing, 

And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  under- 
stood. 

Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to 
rest 

Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward 
the  Prince.” 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl, 
and  she 

With  frequent  smile  and  nod  depart- 
ing found, 

Half  disarray’d  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl ; 

Whom  first  she  kiss’d  on  either  cheek, 
and  then 

On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a hand, 

And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  her 
face, 

And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  the 
hall, 

Proving  her  heart : but  never  light  and 
shade 

Coursed  one  another  more  on  open 
ground 

Beneath  a troubled  heaven,  than  red 
and  pale 

Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her ; 

While  slowly  falling  as  a scale  that 
falls, 

When  weight  is  added  only  grain  by 
grain , 

Sank  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gentle 
breast ; 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


245 


Nor  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a 
word, 

Rapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of 
it ; 

So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 

She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail’d  to 
draw 

The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but 
lay 

Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness; 

And  when  the  pale  and  bloodless  east 
began 

To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and 
raised 

Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand 
they  moved 

Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts 
were  held, 

And  waited  there  for  Yniol  and 
Geraint. 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and 
when  Geraint 

Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him, 

He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily 
force, 

Himself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could 
move 

The  chair  of  Idris.  Yniol’s  rusted 
arms 

Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro’ 
these 

Princelike  his  bearing  shone ; and 
errant  knights 

And  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the 
town 

Flow’d  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the 
lists. 

And  there  they  fixt  the  forks  into  the 
ground, 

And  over  these  they  placed  the  silver 
wand, 

And  over  that  the  golden  sparrow- 
hawk. 

Then  Yniol’s  nephew,  after  trumpet 
blown, 

Spake  to  the  lady  with  him  and  pro- 
claim’d, 

“ Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the 
fair, 

For  I these  two  years  past  have  won 
it  for  thee, 


The  prize  of  beauty.”  Loudly  spake 
the  Prince, 

“Forbear:  there  is  a worthier,”  and 
the  knight 

With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much 
disdain 

Turn’d,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all 
his  face 

Glow’d  like  the  heart  of  a great  fire 
at  Yule, 

So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  crying 
out, 

“ Do  battle  for  it  then,”  no  more  ; and 
thrice 

They  clash’d  together,  and  thrice  they 
brake  their  spears. 

Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing, 
lash’d  at  each 

So  often  and  with  such  blows,  that  all 
the  crowd 

Wonder’d,  and  now  and  then  from 
distant  walls 

There  came  a clapping  as  of  phantom 
hands. 

So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they 
breathed,  and  still 

The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the 
blood 

Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain’d 
their  force. 

But  either’s  force  was  match’d  till 
Yniol’s  cry, 

“ Remember  that  great  insult  done  the 
Queen,” 

Increased  Geraint’s,  who  heaved  his 
blade  aloft, 

And  crack’d  the  helmet  thro’,  and  bit 
the  bone, 

And  fell’d  him,  and  set  foot  upon  his 
breast, 

And  said,  “Thy  name?  ” To  whom 
the  fallen  man 

Made  answer,  groaning,  “ Edyrn,  son 
of  Nudd ! 

Ashamed  am  I that  I should  tell  it 
thee. 

My  pride  is  broken  : men  have  seen 
my  fall.” 

“ Then,  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd,”  replied 
Geraint, 

“ These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or 
else  thou  diest. 


246 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


First,  thou  thyself,  with  damsel  and 
with  dwarf, 

Shalt  ride  to  Arthur’s  court,  and  com- 
ing there, 

Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  the 
Queen, 

And  shalt  abide  her  judgment  on  it; 
next, 

Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to 
thy  kin. 

These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or 
thou  shalt  die.” 

And  Edyrn  answer’d,  “ These  things 
will  I do, 

For  I have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 

And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my 
pride 

Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my 
fall ! ” 

And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur’s 
court, 

And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him 
easily. 

And  being  young,  he  changed  and 
came  to  loathe 

His  crime  of  traitor,  slowly  drew  him- 
self 

Bright  from  his  old  dark  life,  and  fell 
at  last 

In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the 
King. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the 
hunting-morn 

Made  a low  splendor  in  the  world,  and 
wings 

Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she 
lay 

With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow 
light, 

Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the 
birds, 

Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her 
promise  given 

No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince 
Geraint  — 

So  bent  he  seem’d  on  going  the  third 
day, 

He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  prom- 
ise given  — 

To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the 
court, 


And  there  be  made  known  to  the 
stately  Queen, 

And  there  be  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony. 

At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her 
dress, 

And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look’d 
so  mean. 

For  as  a leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem’d 
The  dress  that  now  she  look’d  on  to 
the  dress 

She  look’d  on  ere  the  coming  of 
Geraint. 

And  still  she  look’d,  and  still  the 
terror  grew 

Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful 
thing,  a court, 

All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk  : 
And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she 
said : 

“ This  noble  prince  who  won  our 
earldom  back, 

So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire, 
Sweet  heaven,  how  much  I shall  dis- 
credit him  ! 

Would  he  could  tarry  with  us  here 
awhile, 

But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince, 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us, 
Bent  as  he  seem’d  on  going  this  third 
day, 

To  seek  a second  favor  at  his  hands. 
Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a day  or  two, 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  finger 
lame, 

Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him.” 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a dress 
All  branch’d  and  flower’d  with  gold, 
a costly  gift 

Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  the 
night 

Before  her  birth  day,  three  sad  years 
ago, 

That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyrn  sack’d 
their  house, 

And  scatter’d  all  they  had  to  all  the 
winds  : 

For  while  the  mother  show’d  it,  and 
the  two 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


247 


Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the 
work 

To  both  appear'd  so  costly,  rose  a cry 

That  Edyrn’s  men  were  on  them,  and 
they  fled 

With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had 
on, 

Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought 
them  bread  : 

And  Edyrn’s  men  had  caught  them  in 
their  flight, 

And  placed  them  in  this  ruin ; and 
she  wish’d 

The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her 
ancient  home ; 

Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past, 

And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she 
knew; 

And  last  bethought  her  how  she  used 
to  watch, 

Near  that  old  home,  a pool  of  golden 
carp ; 

And  one  was  patch’d  and  blurr’d  and 
lustreless 

Among  his  burnish’d  brethren  of  the 
pool ; 

And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 

Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 

And  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep 
again ; 

And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a faded 
form 

Among  her  burnish’d  sisters  of  the 
pool ; 

But  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a king; 

And  tho’  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  she 
knew 

That  all  was  bright ; that  all  about 
were  birds 

Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work ; 

That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that 
look’d 

Each  like  a garnet  or  a turkis  in  it ; 

And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court 
went 

In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state ; 

And  children  of  the  King  in  cloth  of 
gold 

Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol’d  down 
the  walks  ; 

And  while  she  thought  “ They  will 
not  see  me,”  came 


A stately  queen  whose  name  was 
Guinevere, 

And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of 
gold 

llan  to  her,  crying,  “ If  we  have  fish 
at  all 

Let  them  be  gold ; and  charge  the 
gardeners  now 

To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the 
pool, 

And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die.” 

And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized 
on  her, 

And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her 
heart 

All  overshadow’d  by  the  foolish 
dream, 

And  lo ! it  was  her  mother  grasping 
her 

To  get  her  well  awake ; and  in  her 
hand 

A suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she 
laid 

Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exult- 
ingly : 

“ See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the 
colors  look, 

How  fast  they  hold  like  colors  of  a 
shell 

That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the 
wave. 

Why  not?  It  never  yet  was  worn,  I 
trow : 

Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  ye 
know  it.” 

And  Enid  look’d,  but  all  confused 
at  first, 

Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish 
dream : 

Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  re- 
joiced, 

And  answer’d,  “Yea,  I know  it;  your 
good  gift, 

So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night ; 

Your  own  good  gift!”  “ Yea,  surely,” 
said  the  dame, 

“ And  gladly  given  again  this  happy 
morn. 

For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yes- 
terday, 


248 


GERAINT  AND  ENID . 


Went  Yniol  thro’  the  town,  and  every- 
where 

He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our 
house 

All  scatter’d  tliro’  the  houses  of  the 
town ; 

And  gave  command  that  all  which 
once  was  ours 

Should  now  be  ours  again  : and  yes- 
ter-eve, 

While  ye  were  talking  sweetly  with 
your  Prince, 

Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my 
hand, 

For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of 
us, 

Because  we  have  our  earldom  back 
again. 

And  yester-eve  I would  not  tell  you 
of  it, 

But  kept  it  for  a sweet  surprise  at 
morn. 

Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a sweet  surprise  'i 

For  I myself  unwillingly  have  worn 

My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have 
yours, 

And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 

Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a goodly 
house, 

With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous 
fare, 

And  page,  and  maid,  and  squire,  and 
seneschal, 

And  pastime  both  of  hawk  and  hound, 
and  all 

That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 

Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a goodly 
house ; 

But  since  our  fortune  swerved  from 
sun  to  shade, 

And  all  thro’  that  young  traitor,  cruel 
need 

Constrain’d  us,  but  a better  time  has 
come ; 

So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better 
fits 

Our  mended  fortunes  and  a Prince’s 
bride : 

For  tho’  ye  won  the  prize  of  fairest 
fair, 

And  tho’  I heard  him  call  you  fairest 
fair, 


Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 

She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than 
old. 

And  should  some  great  court-lady 
say,  the  Prince 

Hath  pick’d  a ragged-robin  from  the 
hedge, 

And  like  a madman  brought  her 
to  the  court, 

Then  were  ye  shamed,  and,  worse, 
might  shame  the  Prince 

To  whom  we  are  beholden;  but  I 
know, 

When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at 
her  best, 

That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho’ 
they  sought 

Thro’  all  the  provinces  like  those  of 
old 

That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has 
her  match.” 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out 
of  breath ; 

And  Enid  listen’d  brightening  as  she 
lay; 

Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star 
of  morn 

Parts  from  a bank  of  snow,  and  by 
and  by 

Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden 
rose, 

And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed 
herself, 

Help’d  by  the  mother’s  careful  hand 
and  eye, 

Without  a mirror,  in  the  gorgeous 
gown  ; 

Who,  after,  turn’d  her  daughter  round, 
and  said, 

She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so 
fair; 

And  call’d  her  like  that  maiden  in  the 
tale, 

Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out 
of  flowers, 

And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cas- 
sivelaun, 

Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman 
Caesar  first 

Invaded  Britain,  “ But  we  beat  him 
back, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


249 


As  this  great  Prince  invaded  us,  and 
we, 

Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him 
with  joy. 

And  I can  scarcely  ride  with  you  to 
court, 

For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and 
wild ; 

But  Yniol  goes,  and  I full  oft  shall 
dream 

I see  my  princess  as  I see  her  now, 
Clothed  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among 
the  gay.” 

But  wrhile  the  women  thus  rejoiced, 
Geraint 

Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall, 
and  call’d 

For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid 

gay 

In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately 
Queen, 

He  answer’d : ‘‘  Earl,  entreat  her  by 
my  love, 

Albeit  I give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded 
silk.” 

Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went; 
it  fell 

Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty 
corn : 

For  Enid,  all  abash’d  she  knew  not 
why, 

Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good 
mother’s  face, 

But  silently,  in  all  obedience, 

Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her, 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broid- 
er’d  gift, 

And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit 
again, 

And  so  descended.  Never  man  re- 
joiced 

More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus 
attired ; 

And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at 
her 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver’s  toil, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eye- 
lid fall. 


But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satis- 
fied; 

Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother’s 
brow, 

Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and 
sweetly  said, 

“ 0 my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth 
or  grieved 

At  thy  new  son,  for  my  petition  to 
her. 

When  late  I left  Caerleon,  our  great 
Queen, 

In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were 
so  sweet, 

Made  promise,  that  whatever  bride  I 
brought, 

Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun 
in  Heaven. 

Thereafter,  when  I reach’d  this  ruin’d 
hall, 

Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 

I vow’d  that  could  I gain  her,  our  fair 
Queen, 

No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your 
Enid  burst 

Sunlike  from  cloud — and  likewise 
thought  perhaps, 

That  service  done  so  graciously  would 
bind 

The  two  together;  fain  I would  the 
two 

Should  love  each  other:  how  can 
Enid  find 

A nobler  friend  1 Another  thought 
was  mine ; 

I came  among  you  here  so  suddenly, 

That  tho’  her  gentle  presence  at  the 
lists 

Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that 
I was  loved, 

I doubted  whether  daughter’s  tender- 
ness, 

Or  easy  nature,  might  not  let  itself 

Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her 
weal ; 

Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her 
own  self 

Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  over- 
bore 

Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky 
hall ; 


250 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


And  such  a sense  might  make  her 
long  for  court 

And  all  its  perilous  glories : and  I 
thought, 

That  could  I someway  prove  such 
force  in  her 

Link’d  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at 
a word 

(No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast 
aside 

A splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to 
her, 

And  therefore  dearer;  or  if  not  so 
new, 

Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the 
power 

Of  intermitted  usage  ; then  I felt 

That  I could  rest,  a rock  in  ebbs  and 
flows, 

Fixt  on  her  faith.  Now,  therefore,  I 
do  rest, 

A prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy, 

That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can 
cross 

Between  us.  Grant  me  pardon  for 
my  thoughts : 

And  for  my  strange  petition  I will 
make 

Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day, 

When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your 
-costly  gift 

Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with, 
on  her  knees, 

Who  knows  ? another  gift  of  the  high 
God, 

Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn’d  to 
lisp  you  thanks.” 

He  spoke : the  mother  smiled,  but 
half  in  tears, 

Then  brought  a mantle  down  and 
wrapt  her  in  it, 

And  claspt  and  kiss’d  her,  and  they 
rode  away. 

Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere 
had  climb’d 

The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high 
crest,  they  say, 

Men  saw  the  goodly  hills,  of  Somerset, 

And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow 
sea; 


But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 

Look’d  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the 
vale  of  Usk, 

By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them 
come ; 

And  then  descending  met  them  at  the 
gates. 

Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a 
friend, 

And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince’s 
bride, 

And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like 
the  sun; 

And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon 

gay, 

For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high 
saint, 

They  twain  were  wedded  with  all 
ceremony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year’s 
Whitsuntide. 

But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk, 

Remembering  how  first  he  came  on 
her, 

Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 
her  in  it, 

And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the 
dress, 

And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as 
himself 

Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said 
to  her, 

“Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest 
dress,”  she  found 

And  took  it,  and  array’d  herself 
therein. 


n. 

O purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a life-long  trouble  for  our- 
selves. 

By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for 
true  ; 

Here,  thro’  the  feeble  twilight  of  this 
world 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


251 


Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and 
reach 

That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are 
seen ! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issu- 
ing forth 

That  morning,  when  they  both  had 
got  to  horse, 

Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passion- 
ately, 

And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round 
his  heart, 

Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break 
perforce 

Upon  a head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said  : 

“Not  at  my  side.  I charge  thee  ride 
before, 

Ever  a good  way  on  before  ; and  this 

I charge  thee,  on  thy  duty  as  a wife, 

Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to 
me, 

No,  not  a word ! ” and  Enid  was 
aghast ; 

And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three 
paces  on, 

When  crying  out,  “Effeminate  as  I 
am, 

I will  not  fight  my  way  with  gilded 
arms, 

All  shall  be  iron  ; ” he  loosed  a mighty 
purse, 

Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl’d  it  toward 
the  squire. 

So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of 
home 

Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing, 
strown 

With  gold  and  scatter’d  coinage,  and 
the  squire 

Chafing  his  shoulder : then  he  cried 
again, 

“ To  the  wilds  ! ” and  Enid  leading 
down  the  tracks 

Thro’  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on, 
they  past 

The  marches,  and  by  bandit-haunted 
holds, 

Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places 
of  the  hern, 

And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they 
rode : 


Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but 
slacken’d  soon : 

A stranger  meeting  them  had  surely 
thought 

They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look’d 
so  pale, 

That  each  had  suffer’d  some  exceed- 
ing wrong. 

For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 

“01  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon 
her, 

To  compass  her  with  sweet  obser- 
vances, 

To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her 
true  ” — 

And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in 
his  heart 

Abruptly,  as  a man  upon  his  tongue 

May  break  it,  when  his  passion  mas- 
ters him. 

And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet 
heavens 

To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any 
wound. 

And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast 
about 

For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself, 

Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and 
so  cold ; 

Till  the  great  plover’s  human  whistle 
amazed 

Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the 
waste  she  fear’d 

In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambus- 
cade. 

Then  thought  again,  “ If  there  be  such 
in  me, 

I might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of 
Heaven, 

If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of 
it.” 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day 
was  gone, 

Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall 
knights 

On  horseback,  wholly  arm’d,  behind  a 
rock 

In  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs 
all; 

And  heard  one  crying  to  his  fellow, 
“ Look, 


252 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Here  comes  a laggard  hanging  down 
his  head, 

Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a beaten 
hound ; 

Come,  we  will  slay  him  and  will  have 
his  horse 

And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  be 
ours.” 

Then  Enid  ponder’d  in  her  heart, 
and  said ; 

“ I will  go  back  a little  to  my  lord, 

And  I will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff 
talk ; 

Eor,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me, 

Far  liefer  by  his  dear  hand  had  I die, 

Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss 
or  shame.” 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of 
return, 

Met  his  full  frown  timidly  firm,  and 
said ; 

“ My  lord,  X saw  three  bandits  by  the 
rock 

Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard 
them  boast 

That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess 
your  horse 

And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should 
be  theirs.” 

He  made  a wrathful  answer : “ Did 
I wish 

Your  warning  or  your  silence?  one 
command 

I laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me, 

And  thus  ye  keep  it!  Well  then,  look 
— for  now, 

Whether  ye  wish  me  victory  or  defeat, 

Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my 
death, 

Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not 
lost.” 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrow- 
ful, 

And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandit 
three. 

And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince 
Geraint 


Drave  the  long  spear  a cubit  thro’  his 
breast 

And  out  beyond ; and  then  against  his 
brace 

Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had 
broken  on  him 

A lance  that  splinter’d  like  an  icicle, 

Swung  from  his  brand  a windy  buffet 
out 

Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and 
stunn’d  the  twain 

Or  slew  them,  and  dismounting  like  a 
man 

That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying 
him, 

Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of 
woman  born 

The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which 
they  wore, 

And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the 
suits 

Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 

And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the 
three 

Together,  and  said  to  her,  “ Drive 
them  on 

Before  you;”  and  she  drove  them 
thro’  the  waste. 

He  follow’d  nearer:  ruth  began  to 
work 

Against  his  anger  in  him,  while  he 
watch’d 

The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the 
world, 

With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 

Driving  them  on  : he  fain  had  spoken 
to  her, 

And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the 
wrath 

And  smoulder’d  wrong  that  burnt  him 
all  within ; 

But  evermore  it  seem’d  an  easier  thing 

At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her 
dead, 

Than  to  cry  “ Halt,”  and  to  her  own 
bright  face 

Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty : 

And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him 
wroth  the  more 

That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own 
ear  had  heard 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


253 


Call  herself  false  : and  suffering  thus 
he  made 

Minutes  an  age  : but  in  scarce  longer 
time 

Than  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 

Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again, 

Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  be- 
hold 

In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a deep 
wood, 

Before  a gloom  of  stubborn-shafted 
oaks, 

Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly 
arm’d, 

Whereof  one  seem’d  far  larger  than 
her  lord, 

And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  “ Look, 
a prize ! 

Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits 
of  arms, 

And  all  in  charge  of  whom  ? a girl : 
set  on.” 

“Nay,”  said  the  second,  “yonder 
comes  a knight.” 

The  third,  “ A craven ; how  he  hangs 
his  head.” 

The  giant  answer’d  merrily,  “Yea, but 
one  ? 

Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall 
upon  him.” 

And  Enid  ponder’d  in  her  heart  and 
said, 

“I  will  abide  the  coming  of  m^v  lord. 

And  I will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 

My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 

And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 

I needs  must  disobey  him  for  his 
good ; 

How  should  I dare  obey  him  to  his 
harm  ? 

Needs  must  I speak,  and  tho’  he  kill 
me  for  it, 

I save  a life  dearer  to  me  than  mine.” 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said 
to  him 

With  timid  firmness,  “ Have  I leave 
to  speak  ? ” 

He  said,  “Ye  take  it,  speaking,”  and 
she  spoke. 


“There  lurk  three  villains  yonder 
in  the  wood, 

And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm’d, 
and  one 

Is  larger-limb’d  than  you  are,  and  they 
say 

That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  ye 
pass.” 

To  which  he  flung  a wrathful  an- 
swer back : 

“ And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the 
wood, 

And  every  man  were  larger-limb’d 
than  I, 

And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon 
me, 

I swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 

As  you  that  not  obey  me.  Stand 
aside, 

And  if  I fall,  cleave  to  the  better 
man.” 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the 
event, 

Not  dare  to  watch  the  combat,  only 
breathe 

Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a 
breath. 

And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down 
upon  him. 

Aim’d  at  the  helm,  his  lance  err’d ; but 
Geraint’s, 

A little  in  the  late  encounter  strain’d, 

Struck  thro’  the  bulky  bandit’s  corse- 
let home, 

And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his 
enemy  roll’d, 

And  there  lay  still;  as  he  that  tells 
the  tale 

Saw  once  a great  piece  of  a promon- 
tory, 

That  had  a sapling  growing  on  it,  slide 

From  the  long  shore-cliff’s  windy  walls 
to  the  beach, 

And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling 
grew : 

So  lay  the  man  transfixt.  His  craven 
pair 

Of  comrades  making  slowlier  at  the 
Prince, 


254 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


When  now  they  saw  their  bulwark 
fallen,  stood ; 

On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them 
more, 

Spurr’d  with  his  terrible  war-cry ; for 
as  one, 

That  listens  near  a torrent  mountain- 
brook, 

All  thro’  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract 
hears 

The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger 
fall 

At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to 
hear 

His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by 
it, 

And  foemen  scared,  like  that  false 
pair  who  turn’d 

Flying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 

Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an 
innocent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting, 
pick’d  the  lance 

That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from 
those  dead  wolves 

Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each 
from  each, 

And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each 
on  each, 

And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the 
three 

Together,  and  said  to  her,  “ Drive 
them  on 

Before  you,”  and  she  drove  them  thro’ 
the  wood. 

He  follow’d  nearer  still : the  pain 
she  had 

To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the 
wood, 

Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling 
arms, 

Together,  served  a little  to  disedge 

The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her 
heart : 

And  they  themselves,  like  creatures 
gently  born 

But  into  bad  hands  fall’n,  and  now  so 
long 

By  bandits  groom’d,  prick’d  their  light 
ears,  and  felt 


Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  govern- 
ment. 

So  thro’  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood 
they  past, 

And  issuing  under  open  heavens  be- 
held 

A little  town  with  towers,  upon  a rock. 
And  close  beneath,  a meadow  gemlike 
chased 

In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mow- 
ing in  it : 

And  down  a rocky  pathway  from  the 
place 

There  came  a fair-hair’d  youth,  that 
in  his  hand 

Bare  victual  for  the  mowers : and 
Geraint 

Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the 
meadow  ground, 

He,  when  the  fair-hair’d  youth  came 
by  him,  said, 

“Friend,  let  her  eat;  the  damsel  is  so 
faint.” 

“ Yea,  willingly,”  replied  the  youth  , 
“ and  thou, 

My  lord,  eat  also,  tho’  the  fare  is 
coarse, 

And  only  meet  for  mowers ; ” then  set 
down 

His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  the 
sward 

They  let  the  horses  graze,  and  ate 
themselves. 

And  Enid  took  a little  delicately, 

Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  lord’s  pleasure ; but 
Geraint 

Ate  all  the  mowers’  victual  unawares, 
And  when  he  found  all  empty,  was 
amazed ; 

And,  “Boy,”  said  he,  “I  have  eaten 
all,  but  take 

A horse  and  arms  for  guerdon  ; choose 
the  best.” 

He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 
“ My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty-fold.” 
“Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,”  cried 
the  Prince. 

“ I take  it  as  free  gift,  then,”  said  the 
boy, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


255 


“Not  guerdon  ; for  myself  can  easily, 

While  your  good  damsel  rests,  return, 
and  fetch 

Fresh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  our 
Earl; 

For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is 
his, 

And  I myself  am  his  ; and  I will  tell 
him 

How  great  a man  thou  art : he  loves 
to  know 

When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  terri- 
tory : 

And  he  will  have  thee  to  his  palace 
here, 

And  serve  thee  costlier  than  with 
mowers'  fare.” 

Then  said  Geraint,  “I  wish  no  better 
fare : 

I never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 

Than  when  I left  your  mowers  dinner- 
less. 

And  into  no  Earl’s  palace  will  I go. 

I know,  God  knows,  too  much  of 
palaces ! 

And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to 
me. 

But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 
night, 

And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  re- 
turn 

With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let 
us  know.” 

“Yea,  my  kind  lord,”  said  the  glad 
youth,  and  went, 

Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  him- 
self a knight, 

And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disap- 
pear’d, 

Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left 
alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought 
his  errant  eyes 

Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let 
them  glance 

At  Enid,  where  she  droopt : his  own 
false  doom, 

That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never 
cross 


Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he 
sigh’d  ; 

Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  re- 
mark’d 

The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless, 

And  watch’d  the  sun  blaze  on  the 
turning  scythe, 

And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the 
heat. 

But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin’d 
hall, 

And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 

About  her  hollow  turret,  pluck’d  the 
grass 

There  growing  longest  by  the  mead- 
ow’s edge, 

And  into  many  a listless  annulet, 

Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage 
ring, 

Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  re- 
turn’d 

And  told  them  of  a chamber,  and  they 
went ; 

Where,  after  saying  to  her,  “If  ye 
will, 

Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,”  to 
which 

She  answer’d,  “Thanks,  my  lord;” 
the  two  remain’d 

Apart  by  all  the  chamber’s  width,  and 
mute 

As  creatures  voiceless  thro’  the  fault 
of  birth, 

Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a 
shield, 

Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor 
glance 

The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a sudden,  many  a voice  along 
the  street, 

And  heel  against  the  pavement  echo 
ing,  burst 

Their  drowse ; and  either  started  while 
the  door, 

Push’d  from  without,  drave  backward 
to  the  wall, 

And  midmost  of  a rout  of  roisterers, 

Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale, 

Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 

Enter’d,  the  wild  lord  of  the  place, 
Limours. 


256 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtli- 
ness, 

Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but 
stealthily, 

In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and 
graspt  hand, 

Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his 
eye, 

And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 

Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and 
goodly  cheer 

To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sump- 
tuously 

According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the 
host 

Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his 
friends, 

And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their 
Earl ; 

“ And  care  not  for  the  cost ; the  cost 
is  mine.” 

And  wine  and  food  were  brought, 
and  Earl  Limours 

Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and 
told 

Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and 
play’d  upon  it, 

And  made  it  of  two  colors ; for  his 
talk, 

When  wine  and  free  companions 
kindled  him, 

Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like 
a gem 

Of  fifty  facets ; thus  he  moved  the 
Prince 

To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  ap- 
plause. 

Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry, 
ask’d  Limours, 

“Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the 
room,  and  speak 

To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits 
apart, 

And  seems  so  lonely  ? ” “ My  free 

leave,”  he  said ; 

“ Get  her  to  speak : she  doth  not  speak 
to  me.” 

Then  rose  Limours,  and  looking  at  his 
feet, 

Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears 
may  fail, 


Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring 
eyes, 

Bow’d  at  her  side  and  utter’d  whisper- 
ingly : 

“ Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid,  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid,  the  loss  of  whom  hath  turn’d  me 
wild  — 

What  chance  is  this  ? how  is  it  I see 
you  here  ? 

Ye  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my 
power. 

Yet  fear  me  not : I call  mine  own  self 
wild, 

But  keep  a touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilder- 
ness. 

I thought,  but  that  your  father  came 
between, 

In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back : 
Make  me  a little  happier : let  me 
know  it : 

Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a life  half- 
lost  ? 

Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all 
you  are. 

And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I see  with  joy, 
Ye  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him, 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 
maid, 

To  serve  you  — doth  he  love  you  as  of 
old  ? 

For,  call  it  lovers’  quarrels,  yet  I know 
Tho’  men  may  bicker  with  the  things 
they  love, 

They  would  not  make  them  laughable 
in  all  eyes, 

Not  while  they  loved  them ; and  your 
wretched  dress, 

A wretched  insult  on  you,  dumbly 
speaks 

Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you 
no  more. 

Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now: 
A common  chance  — right  well  I know 
it  — pall’d — * 

For  I know  men : nor  will  ye  win  him 
back, 

For  the  man’s  love  once  gone  never 
returns. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


257 


But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old ; 

With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of 
old  : 

Good,  speak  the  word : my  followers 
ring  him  round : 

He  sits  unarm’d ; I hold  a finger  up ; 

They  understand  : nay ; I do  not  mean 
blood : 

Nor  need  ye  look  so  scared  at  what  I 
say  : 

My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a moat, 

No  stronger  than  a wall : there  is  the 
keep ; 

He  shall  not  cross  us  more  ; speak  but 
the  word  : 

Or  speak  it  not ; but  then  by  Him  that 
made  me 

The  one  true  lover  whom  you  ever 
own’d, 

I will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I have. 

O pardon  me ! the  madness  of  that 
hour, 

When  first  I parted  from  thee,  moves 
me  yet.” 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own 
voice 

And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it 

Made  his  eye  moist ; but  Enid  fear’d 
his  eyes, 

Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from 
the  feast ; 

And  answer’d  with  such  craft  as 
women  use, 

Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a 
chance 

That  breaks  upon  them  perilously, 
and  said : 

“ Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  former 
years, 

And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with 
morn, 

And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by 
violence ; 

Leave  me  to-night : I am  weary  to  the 
death.” 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  bran- 
dish’d plume 

Brushing  his  instep,  bow’d  the  all- 
amorous  Earl, 


And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a loud 
good-night. 

He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his 
men, 

How  Enid  never  loved  a man  but  him, 

Nor  cared  a broken  egg-shell  for  her 
lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince 
Geraint, 

Debating  his  command  of  silence 
given, 

And  that  she  now  perforce  must  vio- 
late it, 

Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 
she  held 

He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 

To  wake  him,  but  hung  o’er  him, 
wholly  pleased 

To  find  him  yet  unwounded  after  fight, 

And  hear  him  breathing  low  and 
equally. 

Anon  she  rose,  and  stepping  lightly, 
heap’d 

The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place, 

All  to  be  there  against  a sudden  need; 

Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  over- 
toil’d 

By  that  day’s  grief  and  travel,  ever- 
more 

Seem’d  catching  at  a rootless  thorn, 
and  then 

Went  slipping  down  horrible  prec- 
ipices, 

And  strongly  striking  out  her  limbs 
awoke ; 

Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl 
at  the  door, 

With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 

Sound  on  a dreadful  trumpet,  sum- 
moning her; 

Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to 
the  light, 

As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o’er  the  dewy 
world, 

And  glimmer’d  on  his  armor  in  the 
room. 

And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 

But  touch’d  it  unawares:  jangling, 
the  casque 

Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at 
her. 


258 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence 
given, 

She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours 
had  said, 

Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her 
not ; 

Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had 
used ; 

But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet, 

Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and 
seem’d 

So  justified  by  that  necessity, 

That  tho’  he  thought  “was  it  for  him 
she  wept 

In  Devon  ? ” he  but  gave  a wrathful 
groan, 

Saying,  “ Your  sweet  faces  make  good 
fellows  fools 

And  traitors.  Call  the  host  and  bid 
him  bring 

Charger  and  palfrey.”  So  she  glided 
out 

Among  the  heavy  breathings  of  the 
house, 

And  like  a household  Spirit  at  the 
walls 

Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and 
return’d : 

Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho’  all 
unask’d, 

In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a squire ; 

Till  issuing  arm’d  he  found  the  host 
and  cried, 

“Thy  reckoning,  friend  1 ” and  ere  he 
learnt  it,  “ Take 

Five  horses  and  their  armors  ” ; and 
the  host 

Suddenly  honest,  answer’d  in  amaze, 

“ My  lord,  I scarce  have  spent  the 
worth  of  one  ! ” 

“Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,”  said 
the  Prince, 

And  then  to  Enid,  “Forward!  and 
to-day 

I charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially, 

What  thing  soever  ye  may  hear,  or  see, 

Or  fancy  (tho’  I count  it  of  small  use 

To  charge  you)  that  ye  speak  not  but 
obey.” 

And  Enid  answer’d,  “Yea,  my  lord, 
I know 


Your  wish,  and  would  obey;  but  rid- 
ing first, 

I hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not 
hear, 

I see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see : 

Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that 
seems  hard ; 

Almost  beyond  me:  yet  I would 
obey.” 

“Yea  so,”  said  he,  “do  it:  be  not 
too  wise ; 

Seeing  that  ye  are  wedded  to  a man, 

Not  all  mismated  with  a yawning- 
clown, 

But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head 
and  yours, 

With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however 
far, 

And  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his 
dreams.” 

With  that  he  turn’d  and  look’d  as 
keenly  at  her 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver’s 
toil ; 

And  that  within  her,  which  a wanton 
fool, 

Or  hasty  judger  would  have  call’d  her 
guilt, 

Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eye- 
lid fall. 

And  Geraint  look’d  and  was  not  satis- 
fied. 

Then  forward  by  a way  which, 
beaten  broad, 

Led  from  the  territory  of  false 
Limours 

To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl, 

Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals 
call’d  the  Bull, 

Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower 
on. 

Once  she  look’d  back,  and  when  she 
saw  him  ride 

More  near  by  many  a rood  than  yes- 
termorn, 

It  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful  ; till 
Geraint 

Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should 
say 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


259 


“ Ye  watch  me,”  sadden’d  all  her  heart 
again. 

But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a dewy 
blade, 

The  sound  of  many  a heavily-gallop- 
ing hoof 

Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round 
she  saw 

Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker 
in  it. 

Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord’s  behest, 

And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he 
rode 

As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she 
held 

Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 

At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy, 

Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his 
word, 

Was  in  a manner  pleased,  and  turning, 
stood. 

And  in  the  moment  after,  wild 
Limours, 

Borne  on  a black  horse,  like  a thun- 
der-cloud 

Whose  skirts  are  loosen’d  by  the 
breaking  storm, 

Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he 
rode, 

And  all  in  passion  uttering  a dry 
shriek, 

Dash’d  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with 
him,  and  bore 

Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm 
beyond 

The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn’d 
or  dead, 

And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow’d 
him, 

And  blindly  rush’d  on  all  the  rout 
behind. 

But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the 
man 

They  vanish’d  panic-stricken,  like  a 
shoal 

Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a summer 
morn 

A down  the  crystal  dykes  at  Camelot 

Come  slipping  o’er  their  shadows  on 
the  sand, 

But  if  a man  who  stands  upon  the 
brink 


But  lift  a shining  hand  against  the 
sun, 

There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a fin 

Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in 
flower ; 

So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the 
man, 

Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the 
Earl, 

And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way ; 

So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in 
wine. 

Then  like  a stormy  sunlight  smiled 
Geraint, 

Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that 
fell 

Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and 
* wildly  fly, 

Mixt  with  the  flyers.  “ Horse  and 
man,”  he  said, 

“All of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest 
friends  ! 

Not  a hoof  left : and  I methinks  till 
now 

Was  honest  — paid  with  horses  and 
with  arms ; 

I cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg : 

And  so  what  say  ye,  shall  we  strip 
him  there 

Your  lover?  has  your  palfrey  heart 
enough 

To  bear  his  armor  ? shall  we  fast,  or 
dine  ? 

No  ? — then  do  thou,  being  right  hon- 
est, pray 

That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of 
Earl  Doorm, 

I too  would  still  be  honest.”  Thus 
he  said  : 

And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 

And  answering  not  a word,  she  led  the 
way. 

But  as  a man  to  whom  a dreadful 
loss 

Falls  in  a far  land  and  he  knows  it 
not, 

But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the 
loss 

So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to 
death  ; 


260 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  being 
prick’d 

In  combat  with  the  follower  of 
Limours, 

Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly, 

And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle 
wife 

What  ail’d  him,  hardly  knowing  it 
himself, 

Till  his  eye  darken’d  and  his  helmet 
wagg’d  ; 

And  at  a sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 

Tho’  happily  down  on  a bank  of  grass, 

The  Prince,  without  a word,  from  his 
horse  fell. 


And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his 
fall,  ^ » 

Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all 
pale 

Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of 
his  arms, 

Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue 
eye 

Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  his 
wound, 

And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 

Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blister- 
ing sun, 

And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain’d  her 
dear  lord’s  life. 

Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand 
could  do, 

She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 

Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the 
way. 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded 
her, 

Eor  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbu- 
lence, 

A woman  weeping  for  her  murder’d 
mate 

Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a summer 
shower : 

One  took  him  for  a victim  of  Earl 
Doorm, 

Nor  dared  to  waste  a perilous  pity  on 
him : 

Another  hurrying  past,  a man-at-arms, 

Rode  on  a mission  to  the  bandit  Earl; 


Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a 
coarse  song, 

He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless 
eyes : 

Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of 
Doorm 

Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 

The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in 
his  fear  ; 

At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted 
heel 

And  scour’d  into  the  coppices  and  was 
lost, 

While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved 
like  a man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge 
Earl  Doorm, 

Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  rus- 
set beard, 

Bound  on  a foray,  rolling  eyes  of 
prey, 

Came  riding  with  a hundred  lances 
up; 

But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a 
ship, 

Cried  out  with  a big  voice,  “ What,  is 
he  dead  ? ” 

“ No,  no,  not  dead ! ” she  answer’d  in 
all  haste. 

“Would  some  of  your  kind  people 
take  him  up, 

And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel 
sun  % 

Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not 
dead.” 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm:  “ Well,  if 
he  be  not  dead, 

Why  wail  ye  for  him  thus  ? ye  seem  a 
child. 

And  be  he  dead,  I count  you  for  a 
fool; 

Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him  : 
dead  or  not, 

Ye  mar  a comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 

Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely  — some 
of  you, 

Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to 
our  hall : 

An  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our 
band ; 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


261 


And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth 
enough 

To  hide  him.  See  ye  take  the  charger 
too, 

A noble  one.” 


He  spake,  and  past  away, 

But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  who 
advanced, 

Each  growling  like  a dog,  when  his 
good  bone 

Seems  to  be  pluck’d  at  by  the  village 
boys 

Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he 
fears 

To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot 
upon  it, 

Gnawing  and  growling : so  the  ruffians 
growl’d, 

Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a dead 
man, 

Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morn- 
ing’s raid, 

Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a litter- 
bier, 

Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays 
out 

For  those  that  might  be  wounded ; laid 
him  on  it 

All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and 
took 

And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of 
Doorm, 

(His  gentle  charger  following  him 
unled) 

And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which 
he  lay 

Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the 
hall, 

And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to 
join 

Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as 
before, 

And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the 
dead  man, 

And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own 
souls,  and  her. 

They  might  as  well  have  blest  her: 
she  was  deaf 

To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from 
one. 


So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her 
lord, 

There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his 
head, 

And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  call- 
ing to  him. 

Till  at  the  last  he  waken’d  from  his 
swoon, 

And  found  his  own  dear  bride  prop- 
ping his  head, 

And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and 
calling  to  him ; 

And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his 
face; 

And  said  to  his  own  heart,  “ She  weeps 
for  me  ” : 

And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign’d  himself 
as  dead, 

That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  utter- 
most, 

And  say  to  his  own  heart,  “ She  weeps 
for  me.” 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return’d 

The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder 
to  the  hall. 

His  lusty  spearmen  follow’d  him  with 
noise : 

Each  hurling  down  a heap  of  things 
that  rang 

Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance 
aside, 

And  doff’d  his  helm : and  then  there 
flutter’d  in, 

Half-bold,  half-frighted,  with  dilated 
eyes, 

A tribe  of  women,  dress’d  in  many 
hues, 

And  mingled  with  the  spearmen  : and 
Earl  Doorm 

Struck  with  a knife’s  haft  hard 
against  the  board, 

And  call’d  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed 
his  spears. 

And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and 
quarter  beeves, 

And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam 
of  flesh : 

And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat 
down  at  once, 

And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked 
hall, 


262 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear 
them  feed ; 

Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself. 

To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless 
tribe. 

But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all 
he  would, 

He  roll’d  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and 
found 

A damsel  drooping  in  a corner  of  it. 

Then  he  remember’d  her,  and  how  she 
wept ; 

And  out  of  her  there  came  a power 
upon  him ; 

And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said, 
“ Eat ! 

I never  yet  beheld  a thing  so  pale. 

God’s  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see 
you  weep. 

Eat ! Look  yourself.  Good  luck  had 
your  good  man, 

For  were  I dead  who  is  it  would 
weep  for  me  ? 

Sweet  lady,  never  since  I first  drew 
breath 

Have  I beheld  a lily  like  yourself. 

And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your 
cheek, 

There  is  not  one  among  my  gentle- 
women 

Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper  for  a 
glove. 

But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be 
ruled, 

And  I will  do  the  thing  I have  not 
done, 

For  ye  shall  share  my  earldom  with 
me,  girl, 

And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one 
nest, 

And  I will  fetch  you  forage  from  all 
fields, 

For  I compel  all  creatures  to  my  will.” 

He  spoke : the  brawny  spearman 
let  his  cheek 

Bulge  with  the  unswallow’d  piece,  and 
turning  stared ; 

While  some,  whose  souls  the  old  ser- 
pent long  had  drawn 

Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the 
wither’d  leaf 


And  makes  it  earth,  hiss’d  each  at 
other’s  ear 

What  shall  not  be  recorded  — women 
they. 

Women,  or  what  had  been  those 
gracious  things, 

But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their 
best, 

Yea,  would  have  help’d  him  to  it : and 
all  at  once 

They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought 
of  them, 

But  answer’d  in  low  voice,  her  meek 
head  yet 

Drooping,  “ I pray  you  of  your  cour- 
tesy, 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be.” 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard 
her  speak, 

But  like  a mighty  patron,  satisfied 

With  what  himself  had  done  so  gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed  that  she  had  thank’d  him, 
adding,  “ Yea, 

Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I account  you 
mine.” 

She  answer’d  meekly,  “ How  should 
I be  glad 

Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  any- 
thing, 

Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon 
me  ? ” 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon 
her  talk, 

As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 

And  sickly  nothing;  suddenly  seized 
on  her, 

And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the 
board, 

And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  cry- 
ing, “Eat.” 

“ No,  no,”  said  Enid,  vext,  “ I will 
not  eat 

Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 

And  eat  with  me.”  “ Drink,  then,” 
he  answer’d.  “ Here  ! ” 

(And  fill’d  a horn  with  wine  and  held 
it  to  her,) 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


263 


“ Lo ! I,  myself,  when  flush’d  with 
fight,  or  hot, 

God’s  curse,  with  anger  — often  I 
myself, 

Before  I well  have  drunken,  scarce 
can  eat : 

Drink  therefore  and  the  wine  will 
change  your  will.” 

“Not  so,”  she  cried,  “By  Heaven,  I 
will  not  drink 

Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do 
it, 

And  drink  with  me ; and  if  he  rise  no 
more, 

I will  not  look  at  wine  until  I die.” 

At  this  he  turn’d  all  red  and  paced 
his  hall, 

Now  gnaw’d  his  under,  now  his  upper 
lip, 

And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at 
last : 

“ Girl,  for  I see  ye  scorn  my  courte- 
sies, 

Take  warning : yonder  man  is  surely 
dead ; 

And  I compel  all  creatures  to  my 
will. 

Not  eat  nor  drink?  And  wherefore 
wail  for  one, 

Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and 
scorn 

By  dressing  it  in  rags  ? Amazed  am 

I, 

Beholding  how  ye  butt  against  my 
wish, 

That  I forbear  you  thus  : cross  me 
no  more. 

At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor 
gown, 

This  silken  rag,  this  beggar-woman’s 
weed : 

I love  that  beauty  should  go  beauti- 
fully : 

For  see  ye  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 

How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of 
one 

Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go 
beautifully  ? 

Rise  therefore ; robe  yourself  in  this  : 
obey.’’ 


He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gen- 
tle women 

Display’d  a splendid  silk  of  foreign 
loom, 

Where  like  a shoaling  sea  the  lovely 
blue 

Play’d  into  green,  and  thicker  down 
the  front 

With  jewels  than  the  sward  with 
drops  of  dew, 

When  all  night  long  a cloud  clings 
to  the  hill, 

And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the. 
day 

Strike  where  it  clung:  so  thickly 
shone  the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer’d,  harder  to  be 
moved 

Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of 
power, 

With  life-long  injuries  burning  un- 
avenged, 

And  now  their  hour  has  come  ; and 
Enid  said : 


“ In  this  poor  gowm  my  dear  lord 
found  me  first, 

And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father’s 
hall: 

In  this  poor  gown  I rode  with  him  to 
court, 

And  there  the  Queen  array’d  me  like 
the  sun : 

In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe 
myself, 

When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal 
quest 

Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be 
gain’d : 

And  this  poor  gown  I will  not  cast 
aside 

Until  himself  arise  a living  man, 

And  bid  me  cast  it.  I have  griefs 
enough : 

Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me 
be : 

I never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him  : 

Yea,  God,  I pray  you  of  your  gentle< 
ness, 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be.” 


264 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and 
down  his  hall, 

And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his 
teeth ; 

Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his 
mood 

Crying,  “ I count  it  of  no  more  avail, 

Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with 
you ; 

Take  my  salute/’  unknightly  with  flat 
hand, 

However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the 

, cheek. 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 

And  since  she  thought,  “ He  had  not 
dared  to  do  it, 

Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was 
dead,” 

Sent  forth  a sudden  sharp  and  bitter 
cry, 

As  of  a wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap, 

Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  tliro’ 
the  wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at 
his  sword, 

(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow 
shield), 

Made  but  a single  bound,  and  with  a 
sweep  of  it 

Shore  thro’  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like 
a ball 

The  russet-bearded  head  roll’d  on  the 
floor. 

So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted 
dead. 

And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the 
hall 

Rose  when  they  saw  the  dead  man 
rise,  and  fled 

Yelling  as  from  a spectre,  and  the  two 

Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said : 

“ Enid,  I have  used  you  worse  than 
that  dead  man ; 

Done  you  more  wrong : we  both  have 
undergone 

That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thrice 
your  own : 

Henceforward  I will  rather  die  than 
doubt. 


And  here  I lay  this  penance  on  my- 
self, 

Not,  tho’  mine  own  ears  heard  you 
yestermorn  — 

You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I heard 
you  say, 

I heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true 
wife : 

I swear  I will  not  ask  your  meaning 
in  it : 

I do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 

And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than 
doubt.” 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender 
word, 

She  felt  so  blunt  and  stupid  at  the 
heart : 

She  only  pray’ d him,  “ Fly,  they  will 
return 

And  slay  you ; fly,  your  charger  is 
without, 

My  palfrey  lost.”  “ Then,  Enid,  shall 
you  ride 

Behind  me.”  “Yea,”  said  Enid,  “let 
us  go.” 

And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately 
horse, 

Who  now  no  more  a vassal  to  the 
thief, 

But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful 
fight, 

Neigh’d  with  all  gladness  as  they 
came,  and  stoop’d 

With  a low  whinny  toward  the  pair : 
and  she 

Kiss’d  the  white  star  upon  his  noble 
front, 

Glad  also;  then  Geraint  upon  the 
horse 

Mounted,  and  reach’d  a hand,  and  on 
his  foot 

She  set  her  own  and  climb’d ; he  turn’d 
his  face 

And  kiss’d  her  climbing,  and  she  cast 
her  arms 

About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode 
away. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Para- 
dise 

O’er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


265 


Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind 

Than  lived  thro’  her,  who  in  that  per- 
ilous hour 

Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  hus- 
band’s heart, 

And  felt  him  hers  again : she  did  not 
weep, 

But  o’er  her  meek  eyes  came  a happy 
mist 

Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of 
Eden  green 

Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain : 

Yet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue 
eyes 

As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path, 

Right  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit 
hold, 

A knight  of  Arthur’s  court,  who  laid 
his  lance 

In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon 
him. 

Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of 
blood, 

She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what 
had  chanced, 

Shriek’d  to  the  stranger  “ Slay  not  a 
dead  man ! ” 

“ The  voice  of  Enid,”  said  the  knight ; 
but  she, 

Beholding  it  was  Edyrn  son  of  Nudd, 

Was  moved  so  much  the  more,  and 
shriek’d  again, 

“ O cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you 
life.” 

And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward 
spake : 

“ My  lord  Geraint,  I greet  you  with 
all  love ; 

1 took  you  for  a bandit  knight  of 
Doorm ; 

And  fear  not,  Enid,  I should  fall  upon 
him, 

Who  love  you,  Prince,  with  something 
of  the  love 

Wherewith  we  love  the  Heaven  that 
chastens  us. 

For  once,  when  I was  up  so  high  in 
pride 

That  I was  half-way  down  the  slope 
to  Hell, 

By  overthrowing  me  you  threw  me 
higher. 


Now,  made  a knight  of  Arthur’s  Table 
Round, 

And  since  I knew  this  Earl,  when  I 
myself 

Was  half  a bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 

I come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to 
Doorm 

(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding 
him 

Disband  himself,  and  scatter  all  his 
powers, 

Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the 
King.” 

“ He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King 
of  kings,” 

Cried  the  wan  Prince ; “ and  lo,  the 
powers  of  Doorm 

Are  scatter’d,”  and  he  pointed  to  the 
field, 

Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on 
mound  and  knoll, 

Were  men  and  women  staring  and 
aghast, 

While  some  yet  fled ; and  then  he 
plainlier  told 

How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within 
his  hall. 

But  when  the  knight  besought  him, 
“ Follow  me, 

Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King’s 
own  ear 

Speak  what  has  chanced ; ye  surely 
have  endured 

Strange  chances  here  alone ; ” that 
other  flush’d, 

And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in 
reply, 

Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless 
King, 

And  after  madness  acted  question 
ask’d  : 

Till  Edyrn  crying,  “ If  ye  will  not  go 

To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to 
you.” 

“ Enough,”  he  said,  “ I follow,”  and 
they  went. 

But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears, 

One  from  the  bandit  scatter’d  in  the 
field, 

And  one  from  Edyrn.  Every  now 
and  then, 


266 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


When  Edyrn  rein’d  his  charger  at 
her  side, 

She  shrank  a little.  In  a hollow  land, 

From  which  old  fires  have  broken, 
men  may  fear 

Fresh  fire  and  ruin.  He,  perceiving, 
said : 

“Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that 
most  had  cause 

To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I am 
changed. 

Yourself  were  first  the  blameless 
cause  to  make 

My  nature’s  prideful  sparkle  in  the 
blood 

Break  into  furious  flame ; being  re- 
pulsed 

By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I schemed  and 
wrought 

Until  I overturn’d  him ; then  set  up 

(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my 
heart) 

My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a para- 
mour ; 

Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest 
fair, 

And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism, 

So  wax’d  in  pride,  that  I believed 
myself 

Unconquerable,  for  I was  wellnigh 
mad  : 

And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in 
these  jousts, 

I should  have  slain  your  father,  seized 
yourself. 

I lived  in  hope  that  sometime  you 
would  come 

To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best 
you  loved ; 

And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your 
meek  blue  eyes, 

The  truest  eyes  that  ever  answer’d 
Heaven, 

Behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on 
him. 

Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or 
pray’d  to  me, 

I should  not  less  have  kill’d  him. 
And  you  came,  — 

But  once  you  came,  — and  with  your 
own  true  eyes 


Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as 
one 

Speaks  of  a service  done  him)  over- 
throw 

My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three 
years  old, 

And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give 
me  life. 

There  was  I broken  down ; there  was 
I saved : 

Tho’  thence  I rode  all-shamed,  hating 
the  life 

He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 

And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid 
upon  me 

Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  her 
court ; 

Where  first  as  sullen  as  a beast  new- 
caged, 

And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a 
wolf, 

Because  I knew  my  deeds  were  known, 
I found, 

Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 

Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence, 

Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a 
grace 

Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I began 

To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former 
life, 

And  find  that  it  had  been  the  wolf’s 
indeed : 

And  oft  I talk’d  with  Dubric,  the  high 
saint, 

Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory, 

Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentle- 
ness, 

Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhood, 
makes  a man. 

And  you  were  often  there  about  the 
Queen, 

But  saw  me  not,  or  mark’d  not  if  you 
saw ; 

Nor  did  I care  or  dare  to  speak  with 
you, 

But  kept  myself  aloof  till  I was 
changed; 

And  fear  not,  cousin ; I am  changed 
indeed.” 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed, 

Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 


GERAINT  AND  ENID . 


267 


Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend 
or  foe, 

There  most  in  those  who  most  have 
done  them  ill. 

And  when  they  reach’d  the  camp  the 
King  himself 

Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  behold- 
ing her 

Tho’  pale,  yet  happy,  ask’d  her  not  a 
word, 

But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he 
held 

In  converse  for  a little,  and  return’d, 

And,  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from 
horse, 

And  kiss’d  her  with  all  pureness, 
brother-like. 

And  show’d  an  empty  tent  allotted 
her, 

And  glancing  for  a minute,  till  he  saw 
her 

Pass  into  it,  turn’d  to  the  Prince,  and 
said : 

“Prince,  when  of  late  ye  pray’d  me 
for  my  leave 

To  move  to  your  own  land,  and  there 
defend 

Your  marches,  I was  prick’d  with 
some  reproof, 

As  one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate 
and  be, 

By  having  look’d  too  much  thro’  alien 
eyes, 

And  wrought  too  long  with  delegated 
hands, 

Not  used  mine  own : but  now  behold 
me  come 

To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 
my  realm, 

With  Edyrn  and  with  others : have 
ye  look’d 

At  Edyrn  1 have  ye  seen  how  nobly 
changed  ? 

This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonder- 
ful. 

His  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is 
changed, 

The  world  will  not  believe  a man 
repents : 

And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly 
right. 


Full  seldom  doth  a man  repent,  or  use 

Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious 
quitch 

Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of 
him, 

And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself 
afresh. 

Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his 
heart 

As  I will  weed  this  land  before  I go. 

I,  therefore,  made  him  of  our  Table 
liound, 

Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him 
everyway 

One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous, 

Sanest  and  most  obedient : and  indeed 

This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon 
himself 

After  a life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 

A thousand-fold  more  great  and  won- 
derful 

Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking 
his  life, 

My  subject  with  my  subjects  under 
him, 

Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on 
a realm 

Of  robbers,  tho’  he  slew  them  one  by 
one, 

And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to 
the  death.” 

So  spake  the  King ; low  bow’d  the 
Prince,  and  felt 

His  work  was  neither  great  nor  won- 
derful, 

And  past  to  Enid’s  tent ; and  thither 
came 

The  King’s  own  leech  to  look  into  his 
hurt ; 

And  Enid  tended  on  him  there ; and 
there 

Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and 
the  breath 

Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over 
him, 

Fill’d  all  the  genial  courses  of  his 
blood 

With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper 
love, 

As  the  south-west  that  blowing  Bala 
lake 


265 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


Fills  all  the  sacred  Dee.  So  past  the 
days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of 
his  hurt, 

The  blameless  King  went  forth  and 
cast  his  eyes 

On  each  of  all  whom  Uther  left  in 
charge 

Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the 
King  : 

He  look’d  and  found  them  wanting ; 
and  as  now 

Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the 
Berkshire  hills 

To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  here- 
tofore, 

He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 

Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink’d 
at  wrong, 

And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a stronger 
race 

With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a 
thousand  men 

To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  every- 
where 

Clear’d  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the 
law, 

And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and 
cleansed  the  land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole 
again,  they  past 

With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 

There  the  great  Queen  once  more  em- 
braced her  friend, 

And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the 
day. 

And  tho’  Geraint  could  never  take 
again 

That  comfort  from  their  converse 
which  he  took 

Before  the  Queen’s  fair  name  was 
breathed  upon, 

He  rested  well  content  that  all  was 
well. 

Thence  after  tarrying  for  a space  they 
rode, 

And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to 
the  shores 

Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 
land. 


And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the 
King 

So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all 
hearts 

Applauded,  and  the  spiteful  whisper 
died : 

And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 

And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament, 

They  call’d  him  the  great  Prince  and 
man  of  men. 

But  Enid,  whom  the  ladies  loved  to 
call 

Enid  the  Pair,  a grateful  people 
named 

Enid  the  Good ; and  in  their  halls 
arose 

The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and 
Geraints 

Of  times  to  be ; nor  did  he  doubt  her 
more, 

But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he 
crown’d 

A happy  life  with  a fair  death,  and 
fell 

Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern 
Sea 

In  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless 
King. 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 

A storm  was  coming,  but  the  winds 
were  still, 

And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow,  huge  and 
old 

It  look’d  a tower  of  ruin’d  masonwork, 
At  Merlin’s  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 


Whence  came  she  ? One  that  bare 
in  bitter  grudge 

The  scorn  of  Arthur  and  his  Table, 
Mark 

The  Cornish  King,  had  heard  a wan- 
dering voice, 

A minstrel  of  Caerleon  by  strong  storm 
Blown  into  shelter  at  Tintagil,  say 
That  out  of  naked  knightlike  purity 
Sir  Lancelot  worship!  no  unmarried 
girl 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


269 


But  the  great  Queen  herself,  fought 
in  her  name, 

Svvare  by  her  — vows  like  theirs,  that 
high  in  heaven 

Love  most,  but  neither  marry,  nor  are 
given 

In  marriage,  angels  of  our  Lord’s  re- 
port. 

He  ceased,  and  then  — for  Yivien 
sweetly  said 

(She  sat  beside  the  banquet  nearest 
Mark), 

u And  is  the  fair  example  follow’d, 
Sir, 

In  Arthur’s  household  ? ” — answer’d 
innocently : 

“Ay,  by  some  few  — ay,  truly  — 
youths  that  hold 

It  more  beseems  the  perfect  virgin 
knight 

To  worship  woman  as  true  wife  be- 
yond 

All  hopes  of  gaining,  than  as  maiden 
girl. 

They  place  their  pride  in  Lancelot  and 
the  Queen. 

So  passionate  for  an  utter  purity 

Beyond  the  limit  of  their  bond,  are 
these, 

Tor  Arthur  bound  them  not  to  single- 
ness. 

Brave  hearts  and  clean!  and  yet  — 
God  guide  them  — young.” 


Then  Mark  was  half  in  heart  to 
hurl  his  cup 

Straight  at  the  speaker,  but  forbore  : 
he  rose 

To  leave  the  hall,  and,  Yivien  follow- 
ing him, 

Turn’d  to  her : “ Here  are  snakes 
within  the  grass ; 

And  you  methinks,  0 Vivien,  save  ye 
fear 

The  monkish  manhood,  and  the  mask 
of  pure 

Worn  by  this  court,  can  stir  them  till 
they  sting.” 


And  Vivien  answer’d,  smiling  scorn- 
fully, 

“ Why  fear  1 because  that  foster’d  at 
thy  court 

I savor  of  thy  — virtues  '(  fear  them  ? 
no. 

As  Love,  if  Love  be  perfect,  casts  out 
fear, 

So  Hate,  if  Hate  be  perfect,  casts  out 
fear. 

My  father  died  in  battle  against  the 
King, 

My  mother  on  his  corpse  in  open  field  ; 

She  bore  me  there,  for  born  from 
death  was  I 

Among  the  dead  and  sown  upon  the 
wind  — 

And  then  on  thee!  and  shown  the 
truth  betimes, 

That  old  true  filth,  and  bottom  of  the 
well, 

Where  Truth  is  hidden.  Gracious 
lessons  thine 

And  maxims  of  the  mud  ! ‘ This 

Arthur  pure ! 

Great  Nature  tliro’  the  flesh  herself 
hath  made 

Gives  him  the  lie ! There  is  no  being 
pure, 

My  cherub  ; saith  not  Holy  Writ  the 
same  ? ’ — 

If  I were  Arthur,  I would  have  thy 
Mood. 

Thy  blessing, stainless  King!  I bring 
thee  back, 

When  I have  ferreted  out  their  bur- 
rowings, 

The  hearts  of  all  this  Order  in  mine 
hand  — 

Ay  — so  that  fate  and  craft  and  folly 
close, 

Perchance,  one  curl  of  Arthur’s 
golden  beard. 

To  me  this  narrow  grizzled  fork  of 
thine 

Is  clean er-fashion’d — Well,  I loved 
thee  first, 

That  warps  the  wit.” 

Loud  laugh’d  the  graceless  Mark. 

But  Yivien  into  Camelot  stealing, 
lodged 


270 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


Low  in  the  city,  and  on  a festal  day 

When  Guinevere  was  crossing  the 
great  hall 

Cast  herself  down,  knelt  to  the  Queen, 
and  wail’d. 

“ Why  kneel  ye  there  ? What  evil 
have  ye  wrought  ? 

Rise ! ” and  the  damsel  bidden  rise 
arose 

And  stood  with  folded  hands  and 
downward  eyes 

Of  glancing  corner,  and  all  meekly 
said, 

“ None  wrought,  but  suffer’d  much, 
an  orphan  maid ! 

My  father  died  in  battle  for  thy  King, 

My  mother  on  his  corpse  — in  open 
field, 

The  sad  sea-sounding  wastes  of  Lyon- 
esse  — 

Poor  wretch  — no  friend  ! — and  now 
by  Mark  the  King 

/or  that  small  charm  of  feature  mine, 
pursued  — 

If  any  such  be  mine  — I fly  to  thee. 

Save,  save  me  thou — Woman  of 
women  — thine 

The  wreath  of  beauty,  thine  the  crown 
of  power, 

Be  thine  the  balm  of  pity,  0 Heaven’s 
own  white 

Earth-angel,  stainless  bride  of  stain- 
less King  — 

Help,  for  he  follows ! take  me  to  thy- 
self ! 

O yield  me  shelter  for  mine  innocency 

Among  thy  maidens  ! ” 

Here  her  slow  sweet  eyes 

Fear-tremulous,  but  humbly  hopeful, 
rose 

Fixt  on  her  hearer’s,  while  the  Queen 
who  stood 

All  glittering  like  May  sunshine  on 
May  leaves 

In  green  and  gold,  and  plumed  with 
green  replied, 

“ Peace,  child ! of  overpraise  and  over- 
blame 

We  choose  the  last.  Our  noble 
Arthur,  him 


Ye  scarce  can  overpraise,  will  hear 
and  know. 

Nay  — we  believe  all  evil  of  thy 
Mark  — 

Well,  we  shall  test  thee  farther;  but 
this  hour 

We  ride  a-hawking  with  Sir  Lancelot. 

He  hath  given  us  a fair  falcon  which 
he  train’d ; 

We  go  to  prove  it.  Bide  ye  here  the 
while.” 

She  past;  and  Vivien  murmur’d 
after  “ Go ! 

I bide  the  while.”  Then  thro’  the 
portal-arch 

Peering  askance,  and  muttering 
broken-wise, 

As  one  that  labors  with  an  evil  dream, 

Beheld  the  Queen  and  Lancelot  get  to 
horse. 

“ Is  that  the  Lancelot?  goodly  — 
ay,  but  gaunt : 

Courteous  — amends  for  gauntness  — 
takes  her  hand  — 

That  glance  of  theirs,  but  for  the 
street,  had  been 

A clinging  kiss  — how  hand  lingers 
in  hand ! 

Let  go  at  last ! — they  ride  away  — 
to  hawk 

For  waterfowl.  Royaller  game  is 
mine. 

For  such  a supersensual  sensual  bond 

As  that  gray  cricket  cliirpt  of  at  our 
hearth  — 

Touch  flax  with  flame  — a glance  wilJ 
serve  — the  liars  ! 

Ah  little  rat  that  borest  in  the  dyke 

Thy  hole  by  night  to  let  the  boundless 
deep 

Down  upon  far-off  cities  while  they 
dance  — 

Or  dream  — of  thee  they  dream’d  not 
— nor  of  me 

These  — ay,  but  each  of  either : ride, 
and  dream 

The  mortal  dream  that  never  yet  was 
mine  — 

Ride,  ride  and  dream  until  ye  wake  — 
to  me ! 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


271 


Then,  narrow  court  and  lubber  King, 
farewell ! 

For  Lancelot  will  be  gracious  to  the 
rat, 

And  our  wise  Queen,  if  knowing  that 
I know, 

Will  hate,  loathe,  fear  — but  honor 
me  the  more.” 

Yet  while  they  rode  together  down 
the  plain, 

Their  talk  was  all  of  training,  terms 
of  art, 

Diet  and  seeling,  jesses,  leash  and  lure. 

“ She  is  too  noble  ” he  said  “ to  check 
at  pies, 

Nor  will  she  rake : there  is  no  base- 
ness in  her.” 

Here  when  the  Queen  demanded  as  by 
chance 

“ Know  ye  the  stranger  woman  ? ” 
“ Let  her  be,” 

Said  Lancelot  and  unhooded  casting 
off 

The  goodly  falcon  free ; she  tower’d ; 
her  bells, 

Tone  under  tone,  shrill’d ; and  they 
lifted  up 

Their  eager  faces,  wondering  at  the 
strength, 

Boldness  and  royal  knighthood  of  the 
bird 

Who  pounced  her  quarry  and  slew  it. 
Many  a time 

As  once  — of  old  — among  the  flowers 
— they  rode. 

But  Vivien  half-forgotten  of  the 
Queen 

Among  her  damsels  broidering  sat, 
heard,  watch’d 

And  whisper’d : thro’  the  peaceful 
court  she  crept 

And  whisper’d : then  as  Arthur  in  the 
highest 

Leaven’d  the  world,  so  Vivien  in  the 
lowest, 

Arriving  at  a time  of  golden  rest, 

And  sowing  one  ill  hint  from  ear  to 
ear, 

While  all  the  heathen  lay  at  Arthur’s 
feet, 


And  no  quest  came,  but  all  was  joust 
and  play, 

Leaven’d  his  hall.  They  heard  and 
let  her  be. 

Thereafter  as  an  enemy  that  has  left 

Death  in  the  living  waters,  and  with- 
drawn, 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur’s 
court. 


She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard 
in  thought 

Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name 
was  named. 

For  once,  when  Arthur  walking  all 
alone, 

Vext  at  a rumor  issued  from  herself 

Of  some  corruption  crept  among  his 
knights, 

Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted 
fair. 

Would  fain  have  wrought  upon  his 
cloudy  mood 

With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal, 
shaken  voice, 

And  flutter’d  adoration,  and  at  last 

With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who 
prized  him  more 

Than  who  should  prize  him  most ; at 
which  the  King 

Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone 
by: 

But  one  had  watch’d,  and  had  not  held 
his  peace : 

It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 

That  Vivien  should  attempt  the 
blameless  King. 

And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 

Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all 
those  times, 

Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all 
their  arts, 

Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships, 
and  halls, 

Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry 
heavens ; 

The  people  call’d  him  Wizard ; whom 
at  first 

She  play’d  about  with  slight  and 
sprightly  talk, 


272 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


And  vivid  smiles,  and  faintly-venom’d 
points 

Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  grazing 
there ; 

And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods, 
the  Seer 

Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance, 
and  play, 

Ev’n  when  they  seem’d  unloveable, 
and  laugh 

As  those  that  watch  a kitten ; thus  he 
grew 

Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain’d, 
and  she, 

Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  dis- 
dain’d, 

Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver 
fits, 

Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when 
they  met 

Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 

With  such  a fixt  devotion,  that  the  old 
man, 

Tho’  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at 
times 

Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for 
love, 

And  half  believe  her  true  : for  thus  at 
times 

He  waver’d ; but  that  other  clung  to 
him, 

Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons 
went. 

Then  fell  on  Merlin  a great  melan- 
choly ; 

He  walk’d  with  dreams  and  darkness, 
and  he  found 

A doom  that  ever  poised  itself  to  fall, 

An  ever-moaning  battle  in  the  mist, 

World-war  of  dying  flesh  against  the 
life, 

Death  in  all  life  and  lying  in  all  love, 

The  meanest  having  power  upon  the 
highest, 

And  the  high  purpose  broken  by  the 
worm. 

So  leaving  Arthur’s  court  he  gain’d 
the  beach ; 

There  found  a little  boat,  and  stept 
into  it ; 


And  Vivien  follow’d,  but  he  mark’d 
her  not. 

She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ; 
the  boat 

Drave  with  a sudden  wind  across  the 
deeps, 

And  touching  Breton  sands,  they  dis- 
embark’d. 

And  then  she  follow’d  Merlin  all  the 
way, 

Ev’n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 

For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a 
charm, 

The  which  if  any  wrought  on  anyone 

With  woven  paces  and  with  waving 
arms, 

The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem’d 
to  lie 

Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a hollow 
tower, 

From  which  was  no  escape  for  ever- 
more ; 

And  none  could  find  that  man  for 
evermore, 

Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought 
the  charm 

Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 

And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name 
and  fame. 

And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  the 
charm 

Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the 
Time, 

As  fancying  that  her  glory  would  be 
great 

According  to  his  greatness  whom  she 
quench’d. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and 
kiss’d  his  feet, 

As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 

A twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair ; a 
robe 

Of  samite  without  price,  that  more 
exprest 

Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome 
limbs, 

In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 

On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of 
March : 

And  while  she  kiss’d  them,  crying, 
“ Trample  me, 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


273 


Dear  feet,  that  I have  follow’d  thro’ 
the  world, 

And  I will  pay  you  worship ; tread 
me  down 

And  I will  kiss  you  for  it ; ” he  was 
mute : 

So  dark  a forethought  roll’d  about  his 
brain, 

As  on  a dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 

The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long 
sea-hall 

In  silence  : wherefore,  when  she  lifted 
up 

A face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and 
said, 

“ O Merlin,  do  ye  love  me  ? ” and 
again, 

* 0 Merlin,  do  ye  love  me  ? ” and  once 
more, 

'*  Great  Master,  do  ye  love  me  ? ” he 
was  mute. 

And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his 
heel, 

Writhed  toward  him,  slided  up  his 
knee  and  sat, 

Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow 
feet 

Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his 
neck, 

Clung  like  a snake ; and  letting  her 
left  hand 

Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder,  as  a 
leaf, 

Made  with  her  right  a comb  of  pearl 
to  part 

The  lists  of  such  a beard  as  youth  gone 
out 

Had  left  in  ashes : then  he  spoke  and 
said, 

Not  looking  at  her,  “ Who  are  wise  in 
love 

Love  most,  say  least,”  and  Vivien 
answer’d  quick, 

“ I saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 

In  Arthur’s  arras  hall  at  Camelot : 

But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue  — 0 
stupid  child ! 

Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it ; let  me 
think 

Silence  is  wisdom  : I am  silent  then, 

And  ask  no  kiss  ; ” then  adding  all  at 
once, 


“ And  lo,  I clothe  myself  with  wis- 
dom,” drew 

The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his 
beard 

Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her 
knee, 

And  call’d  herself  a gilded  summer  fly 

Caught  in  a great  old  tyrant  spider’s 
web, 

Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild 
wood 

Without  one  word.  So  Vivien  call’d 
herself, 

But  rather  seem’d  a lovely  baleful  star 

Veil’d  in  gray  vapor ; till  he  sadly 
smiled : 

“To  what  request  for  what  strange 
boon,”  he  said, 

“Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and 
fooleries, 

0 Vivien,  the  preamble  ? yet  my 

thanks, 

For  these  have  broken  up  my  melan- 
choly.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling  sau- 
cily, 

“ What,  O my  Master,  have  ye  found 
your  voice  ? 

1 bid  the  stranger  welcome.  Thanks 

at  last! 

But  yesterday  you  never  open’d  lip, 

Except  indeed  to  drink : no  cup  had 
we : 

In  mine  own  lady  palms  I cull’d  the 
spring 

That  gather’d  trickling  dropwise  from 
the  cleft, 

And  made  a pretty  cup  of  both  my 
hands 

And  offer’d  you  it  kneeling : then  you 
drank 

And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one 
poor  word ; 

O no  more  thanks  than  might  a goat 
have  given 

With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than 
a beard. 

And  when  we  halted  at  that  other 
well, 

And  I was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you 
lay 


274 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


Foot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of 
those 

Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did 
you  know 

That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before 
her  own  ? 

And  yet  no  thanks  : and  all  thro'  this 
wild  wood 

And  all  this  morning  when  I fondled 
you  : 

Boon,  ay,  there  was  a boon,  one  not 
so  strange  — 

How  had  I wrong’d  you  ? surely  ye 
are  wise, 

But  such  a silence  is  more  wise  than 
kind.” 

And  Merlin  lock’d  his  hand  in  hers 
and  said  : 

“ 0 did  ye  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 

And  wratch  the  curl’d  wdiite  of  the 
coming  wave 

Glass’d  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it 
breaks  ? 

Ev’n  such  a wave,  but  not  so  pleasur- 
able, 

Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful 
mood, 

Had  I for  three  days  seen,  ready  to 
fall. 

And  then  I rose  and  fled  from  Arthur’s 
court 

To  break  the  mood.  You  follow’d  me 
unask’d ; 

And  when  I look’d,  and  saw  you  fol- 
lowing still, 

Mymind  involved  jmurself  the  nearest 
thing 

In  that  mind-mist : for  shall  I tell  you 
truth  ? 

You  seem’d  that  wave  about  to  break 
upon  me 

And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the 
world, 

My  use  and  name  and  fame.  Your 
pardon,  child. 

Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten’d  all 
again. 

And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I owe 
you  thrice, 

Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion, 
next 


For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected, 
last 

For  these  your  dainty  gambols : 
wherefore  ask ; 

And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not 
so  strange.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling  mourn- 
fully : 

“ O not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking 
it, 

Not  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are 
strange, 

Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood 
of  yours. 

I ever  fear’d  ye  were  not  wholly 
mine  ; 

And  see,  yourself  have  own’d  ye  did 
me  wrong. 

The  people  call  you  prophet:  let  it 
be  : 

But  not  of  those  that  can  expound 
themselves. 

Take  Vivien  for  expounder  ; she  will 
call 

That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom 
of  yours 

No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful 
mood 

That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than 
yourself, 

Whenever  I have  ask’d  this  very 
boon, 

Now  ask’d  again:  for  see  you  not, 
dear  love, 

That  such  a mood  as  that,  which 
lately  gloom’d 

Your  fancy  when  ye  saw  me  follow- 
ing you, 

Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are 
not  mine, 

Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to 
prove  you  mine, 

And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn 
this  charm 

Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  bands, 

As  proof  of  trust.  O Merlin,  teach  it 
me. 

The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  us 
both  to  rest. 

For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upon 
your  fate. 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


275 


I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy 
trust, 

Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing 
you  mine. 

And  therefore  be  as  great  as  ye  are 
named, 

Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reti- 
cence. 

How  hard  you  look  and  how  deny- 
ingly ! 

O,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 

That  I should  prove  it  on  you  una- 
wares, 

That  makes  me  passing  wrathful ; then 
our  bond 

Had  best  be  loosed  for  ever : but 
think  or  not, 

By  Heaven  that  hears  I tell  you  the 
clean  truth, 

As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white 
as  milk ; 

O Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 

If  these  unwitty  Wandering  wits  of 
mine, 

Ev’n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a 
dream, 

Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treach- 
ery— 

May  this  hard  earth  cleave  to  the 
Nadir  hell 

Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip 
me  flat, 

If  I be  such  a traitress.  Yield  my 
boon, 

Till  which  I scarce  can  yield  you  all 
I am ; 

And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish, 

The  great  proof  of  your  love : because 
I think, 

However  wise,  ye  hardly  know  me 
yet.” 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from 
hers  and  said, 

“ I never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 

Too  curious  Vivien,  tho’  you  talk  of 
trust, 

Than  when  I told  you  first  of  such  a 
charm. 

Yea,  if  ye  talk  of  trust  I tell  you  this, 

Too  much  I trusted  when  I told  you 
that, 


And  stirr’d  this  vice  in  you  which 
ruin’d  man 

Thro’  woman  the  first  hour ; for 
howsoe’er 

In  children  a great  curiousness  be 
well, 

Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all 
the  world, 

In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I 
find 

Your  face  is  practised  when  I spell 
the  lines, 

I call  it,  — well,  I will  not  call  it  vice  : 

But  since  you  name  yourself  the 
summer  fly, 

I well  could  wish  a cobweb  for  the 
gnat, 

That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten 
back 

Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weari- 
ness: 

But  since  I will  not  yield  to  give  you 
power 

Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame, 

Why  will  ye  never  ask  some  other 
boon  ? 

Yea,  by  God’s  rood,  I trusted  you  too 
much.” 


And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest- 
hearted  maid 

That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 

Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with 
tears : 

“ Nay,  Master,  be  not  wrathful  with 
your  maid ; 

Caress  her : let  her  feel  herself  for- 
given 

Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another 
boon. 

I think  ye  hardly  know  the  tender 
rhyme 

Of  ‘ trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.’ 

I heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it 
once, 

And  it  shall  answer  for  me.  Listen 
to  it. 


‘ In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love 
be  ours, 


276 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne’er  be  equal 
powers  : 

Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in 
all. 

‘ It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 

That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music 
mute, 

And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

‘The  little  rift  within  the  lover’s 
lute 

Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner’d  fruit, 

That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders 
all. 

‘ It  is  not  worth  the  keeping : let  it 
go  : 

But  shall  it  ? answer,  darling,  answer, 
no. 

And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.’ 

O Master,  do  ye  love  my  tender 
rhyme  'i  ” 

And  Merlin  look’d  and  half  believed 
her  true, 

So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her 
face, 

So  sweetly  gleam’d  her  eyes  behind 
her  tears 

Like  sunlight  on  the  plain  behind  a 
shower  : 

And  yet  he  answer’d  half  indignantly : 

“ Far  other  was  the  song  that  once 
I heard 

By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where 
we  sit : 

For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve 
of  us, 

To  chase  a creature  that  was  current 
then 

In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with 
golden  horns. 

It  was  the  time  when  first  the  ques- 
tion rose 

About  the  founding  of  a Table  Round, 

That  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and 
men 

And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the 
world. 


And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds 

And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  young- 
est of  us, 

We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he 
flash’d, 

And  into  such  a song,  such  fire  for 
fame, 

Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming 
down 

To  such  a stern  and  iron-clashing 
close, 

That  when  he  stopt  we  long’d  to  hurl 
together, 

And  should  have  done  it;  but  the 
beauteous  beast 

Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our 
feet, 

And  like  a silver  shadow  slipt  away 

Thro’  the  dim  land ; and  all  day  long 
we  rode 

Thro’  the  dim  land  against  a rushing 
wind, 

That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our 
ears, 

And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  golden 
horns 

Until  they  vanish’d  by  the  fairy  well 

That  laughs  at  iron  — as  our  warriors 
did— 

Where  children  cast  their  pins  and 
nails,  and  cry, 

* Laugh,  little  well ! ’ but  touch  it  with 
a sword, 

It  buzzes  fiercely  round  the  point ; and 
there 

We  lost  him  : such  a noble  song  was 
that. 

But,  Vivien,  when  you  sang  me  that 
sweet  rhyme, 

I felt  as  tho’  you  knew  this  cursed 
charm, 

Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I 
lay 

And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name 
and  fame.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling 
mournfully : 

“ O mine  have  ebb’d  away  for  ever- 
more, 

And  all  thro’  following  you  to  this 
wild  wood, 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


277 


Because  I saw  you  sad,  to  comfort 
• you. 

Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men  ! they 
never  mount 

As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless 
mood. 

And  touching  fame,  howe’er  ye  scorn 
my  song, 

Take  one  verse  more  — the  lady 
speaks  it  — this  : 

“ ‘ My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine, 
is  closelier  mine, 

For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that 
fame  were  thine, 

And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine, 
that  shame  were  mine. 

So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.’ 

“ Says  she  not  well  ? and  there  is 
more  — this  rhyme 

Is  like  the  fair  pearl-necklace  of  the 
Queen, 

That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls 
were  spilt ; 

Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics 
kept. 

But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister 
pearls 

Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss 
each  other 

On  her  white  neck  — so  is  it  with  this 
rhyme  : 

It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands, 

And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differ- 
ently ; 

Yet  is  there  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of 
pearls : 

‘ Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman 
wakes  to  love.’ 

Yea ! Love,  tho’  Love  were  of  the 
grossest,  carves 

A portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 

And  uses,  careless  of  the  rest;  but 
Fame, 

The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  noth- 
ing to  us  ; 

And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half- 
disfame, 

&nd  counterchanged  with  darkness  ? 
ye  yourself 


Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil’s 
son, 

And  since  ye  seem  the  Master  of  all 
Art, 

They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of 
all  vice.” 

And  Merlin  lock’d  his  hand  in  hers 
and  said, 

“ I once  was  looking  for  a magic  weed, 

And  found  a fair  young  squire  who 
sat  alone, 

Had  carved  himself  a knightly  shield 
of  wood, 

And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied 
arms, 

Azure,  an  Eagle  rising  or,  the  Sun 

In  dexter  chief ; the  scroll  ‘ I follow 
fame.’ 

And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over 
him, 

I took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the 
bird, 

And  made  a Gardener  putting  in 
graff, 

With  this  for  motto,  ‘ Rather  use  than 
fame.’ 

You  should  have  seen  him  blush  ; but 
afterwards 

He  made  a stalwart  knight.  O Vivien, 

For  you,  methinks  you  think  you  love 
me  well ; 

For  me,  I love  you  somewhat;  rest: 
and  Love 

Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure 
in  himself, 

Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a boon, 

Too  prurient  for  a proof  against  the 
grain 

Of  him  ye  say  ye  love:  but  Fame  with 
men, 

Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve 
mankind, 

Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in 
herself, 

But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love, 

That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to 
one. 

Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame 
again 

Increasing  gave  me  use.  Lo,  there 
my  boon ! 


278 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


What  other  ? for  men  sought  to  prove 
me  vile, 

Because  I fain  had  given  them  greater 
wits : 

And  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil’s 
son  : 

The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help 
herself 

By  striking  at  her  better  miss’d,  and 
brought 

Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her 
own  heart. 

Sweet  were  the  days  when  I was  all 
unknown, 

But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the 
storm 

Brake  on  the  mountain  and  I cared 
not  for  it. 

Bight  well  know  I that  Fame  is  lialf- 
disfame, 

Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.  That 
other  fame, 

To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children, 
vague, 

The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the 
grave, 

I cared  not  for  it : a single  misty  star, 
Which  is  the  second  in  a line  of  stars 
That  seem  a sword  beneath  a belt  of 
three, 

I never  gazed  upon  it  but  I dreamt 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that 
star 

To  make  fame  nothing.  Wherefore, 
if  I fear, 

Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro’  this 
charm, 

That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  hav- 
ing power, 

However  well  ye  think  ye  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 
Have  turn’d  to  tyrants  when  they 
came  to  power) 

I rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than 
fame ; 

If  you  — and  not  so  much  from 
wickedness, 

As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a mood 
Of  overstrain’d  affection,  it  may  be, 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  — or 
else 

A sudden  spurt  of  woman’s  jealousy,— 


Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  ye  say 
ye  love.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling  as  in 
wrath : 

“ Have  I not  sworn  ? I am  not  trusted. 
Good! 

Well,  hide  it,  hide  it;  I shall  find  it 
out ; 

And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 

A woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 

Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger 
born 

Of  your  misfaith ; and  your  fine 
epithet 

Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of 
mine 

Without  the  full  heart  back  may 
merit  well 

Your  term  of  overstrain’d.  So  used 
as  I, 

My  daily  wonder  is,  I love  at  all. 

And  as  to  woman’s  jealousy,  O why 
not  1 

0 to  what  end,  except  a jealous  one, 

And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I love, 

Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  your- 
self ? 

1 well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 

Ye  cage  a buxom  captive  here  and 

there, 

Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a hollow 
tower 

From  which  is  no  escape  for  ever- 
more.” 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  an- 
swer’d her : 

“Full  many  a love  in  loving  youth 
was  mine ; 

I needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them 
mine 

But  youth  and  love ; and  that  full 
heart  of  yours 

Whereof  ye  prattle,  may  now  assure 
you  mine ; 

So  live  uncharm’d.  For  those  who 
wrought  it  first, 

The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand 
that  waved, 

The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle- 
bones 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


279 


Who  paced  it,  ages  back  : but  will  ye 
hear 

The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your 
rhyme  ? 

“ There  lived  a king  in  the  most 
Eastern  East, 

Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my 
blood 

Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 

A tawny  pirate  anchor’d  in  his  port, 

Whose  bark  had  plunder’d  twenty 
nameless  isles  ; 

And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of 
dawn, 

He  saw  two  cities  in  a thousand  boats 

All  fighting  for  a woman  on  the  sea. 

And  pushing  his  black  craft  among 
them  all, 

He  lightly  scatter’d  theirs  and  brought 
her  off, 

With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow- 
slain  ; 

A maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  won 
derful. 

They  said  a light  came  from  her  when 
she  moved : 

And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield 
her  up, 

The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy; 

Then  made  her  Queen : but  those  isle- 
nurtured  eyes 

Waged  such  unwilling  tho’  successful 
war 

On  all-  the  youth,  they  sicken’d  ; coun- 
cils thinn’d, 

And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like 
she  drew 

The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters’ 
hearts ; 

And  beasts  themselves  would  worship ; 
camels  knelt 

Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain 
back 

That  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow’d 
black  knees 

Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent 
hands, 

To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle- 
bells. 

What  wonder,  being  jealous,  that  he 
sent 


His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro’ 
all 

The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he 
sway’d 

To  find  a wizard  who  might  teach  the 
King 

Some  charm,  which  being  wrought 
upon  the  Queen 

Might  keep  her  all  his  own  : to  such  a 
one 

He  promised  more  than  ever  king  has 
given, 

A league  of  mountain  full  of  golden 
mines, 

A province  with  a hundred  miles  of 
coast, 

A palace  and  a princess,  all  for 
him  : 

But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail’d, 
the  King 

Pronounced  a dismal  sentence,  mean- 
ing by  it 

To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders 
back, 

Or  like  a king,  not  to  be  trifled  with  — 

Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the 
city  gates. 

And  many  tried  and  fail’d,  because 
the  charm 

Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own  : 

And  many  a wizard  brow  bleach’d  on 
the  walls  : 

And  many  weeks  a troop  of  carrion 
crows 

Hung  like  a cloud  above  the  gateway 
towers.” 

And  Vivien  breaking  in  upon  him, 
said : 

“ I sit  and  gather  honey ; yet,  me- 
thinks. 

Thy  tongue  has  tript  a little  : ask  thy- 
self. 

The  lady  never  made  unwilling  war 

With  those  fine  eyes : she  had  her 
pleasure  in  it, 

And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with 
good  cause. 

And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor 
damsel  then 

Wroth  at  a lover’s  loss'?  were  all  as 
tame, 


280 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


I mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was 
fair  ? 

Not  one  to  flirt  a venom  at  her  eyes, 

Or  pinch  a murderous  dust  into  her 
drink, 

Or  make  her  paler  with  a poison’d 
rose  ? 

Well,  those  were  not  our  days  : but 
did  they  find 

A wizard  ? Tell  me,  was  he  like  to 
thee  ? ” 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm 
round  his  neck 

Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let 
her  eyes 

Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a 
bride’s 

On  her  new  lord,  her  own.  the  first  of 
men. 

He  answer’d  laughing,  “ Nay,  not 
like  to  me. 

At  last  they  found  — his  foragers  for 
charms  — 

A little  glassy-headed  hairless  man, 

Who  lived  alone  in  a great  wild  on 
grass ; 

Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading 
grew 

So  grated  down  and  filed  away  with 
thought, 

So  lean  his  eyes  were  monstrous ; 
while  the  skin 

Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs 
and  spine. 

And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one 
sole  aim, 

Nor  ever  touch’d  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted 
flesh, 

Nor  own’d  a sensual  wish,  to  him  the 
wall 

That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-cast- 
ing men 

Became  a crystal,  and  he  saw  them 
thro’  it, 

And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind 
the  wall, 

And  learnt  their  elemental  secrets, 
powers 

And  forces  ; often  o’er  the  sun’s  bright 
eye 


Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud, 

And  lash’d  it  at  the  base  with  slanting 
storm ; 

Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving 
rain, 

When  the  lake  whiten’d  and  the  pine- 
wood  roar’d, 

And  the  cairn’d  mountain  was  a 
shadow,  sunn’d 

The  world  to  peace  again:  here  was 
the  man. 

And  so  by  force  they  dragg’d  him  to 
the  King. 

And  then  he  taught  the  King  to 
charm  the  Queen 

In  such-wise,  that  no  man  could  see 
her  more, 

Nor  saw  she  save  the  King,  who 
wrought  the  charm, 

Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as 
dead, 

And  lost  all  use  of  life  : but  when  the 
King 

Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden 
mines, 

The  province  with  a hundred  miles  of 
coast, 

The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old 
man 

Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived 
on  grass, 

And  vanish’d,  and  his  book  came 
down  to  me.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling  sau- 
cily : 

“Ye  have  the  book:  the  charm  is 
written  in  it : 

Good  : take  my  counsel : let  me  know 
it  at  once: 

For  keep  it  like  a puzzle  chest  in 
chest, 

With  each  chest  lock’d  and  padlock’d 
thirty-fold, 

And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a 
mound 

As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the 
slain 

On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy 
deep, 

I yet  should  strike  upon  a sudden 
means 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


281 


To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the 
charm : 

Then,  if  I tried  it,  who  should  blame 
me  then  ? ” 

And  smiling  as  a master  smiles  at 
one 

That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any 
school 

But  that  where  blind  and  naked 
Ignorance 

Delivers  brawling  judgments,  una- 
shamed, 

On  all  things  all  day  long,  he  answer’d 
her : 

“Thou  read  the  book,  my  pretty 
Vivien! 

O ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 

But  every  page  having  an  ample 
marge, 

And  every  marge  enclosing  in  the 
midst 

A square  of  text  that  looks  a little 
blot, 

The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of 
fleas ; 

And  every  square  of  text  an  awful 
charm, 

Writ  in  a language  that  has  long  gone 

by- 

So  long,  that  mountains  have  arisen 
since 

With  cities  on  their  flanks  — thou  read 
the  book ! 

And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost, 
and  cramm’d 

With  comment,  densest  condensation, 
hard 

To  mind  and  eye  ; but  the  long  sleep- 
less nights 

Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to 
me. 

And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even 

I; 

And  none  can  read  the  comment  but 
myself ; 

And  in  the  comment  did  I find  the 
charm. 

0,  the  results  are  simple;  a mere 
child 

Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one, 


And  never  could  undo  it : ask  no 
more : 

For  tho’  you  should  not  prove  it  upon 
me, 

But  keep  that  oath  ye  sware,  ye 
might,  perchance, 

Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table 
Round, 

And  all  because  ye  dream  they  babble 
of  you.” 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger, 
said  : 

“ What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of 
me  ? 

They  ride  abroad  redressing  human 
wrongs  ! 

They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine 
in  horn! 

They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity  ! 

Were  I not  woman,  I could  tell  a tale. 

But  you  are  man,  you  well  can  under- 
stand 

The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain’d 
for  shame. 

Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch 
me : swine  ! ” 

Then  answer’d  Merlin  careless  of 
her  words : 

“ You  breathe  but  accusation  vast  and 
vague, 

Spleen-born,  I think,  and  proofless. 
If  ye  know, 

Set  up  the  charge  ye  know,  to  stand 
or  fall !” 


And  Vivien  answer’d  frowning 
wrathf  ully : 

“ 0 ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence, 
him 

Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o’er 
his  wife 

And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  dis- 
tant lands ; 

Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning 
found 

Not  two  but  three  'i  there  lay  the 
reckling,  one 

But  one  hour  old!  What  said  the 
happy  sire  ? 


282 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN 


A seven-months’  babe  had  been  a 
truer  gift. 

Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused 
his  fatherhood.” 

Then  answer’d  Merlin,  “Nay,  I 
know  the  tale. 

Sir  Valence  wedded  with  an  outland 
dame  : 

Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder’d 
from  his  wife : 

One  child  they  had  : it  lived  with  her : 
she  died: 

His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own 
affair 

Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring 
home  the  child. 

He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore  : 
take  the  truth.” 

“ O ay,”  said  Vivien,  “ overtrue  a 
tale. 

What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sag- 
ramore, 

That  ardent  man  % * to  pluck  the 
flower  in  season,’ 

So  says  the  song,  ‘ I trow  it  is  no 
treason.’ 

0 Master,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 

To  crop  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the 

hour  % ” 

And  Merlin  answer’d,  “ Overquick 
art  thou 

To  catch  a loathly  plume  fall’n  from 
the  wing 

Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose 
whole  prey 

Is  man’s  good  name  : he  never  wrong’d 
his  bride. 

1 know  the  tale.  An  angry  gust  of 

wind 

Puff’d  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad- 
room’d 

And  many-corridor’d  complexities 

Of  Arthur’s  palace : then  he  found  a 
door, 

And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured 
ornament 

That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem 
his  own; 


And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch 
and  slept, 

A stainless  man  beside  a stainless 
maid ; 

And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other 
there ; 

Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal 
rose 

In  Arthur’s  casement  glimmer’d 
chastely  down, 

Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at 
once 

He  rose  without  a word  and  parted 
from  her : 

But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about 
the  court, 

The  brute  world  howling  forced  them 
into  bonds, 

And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy, 
being  pure.” 

“ O ay,”  said  Vivien,  “ that  were 
likely  too. 

What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 

And  of  the  horrid  foulness  that  he 
wrought, 

The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb 
of  Christ, 

Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan’s 
fold. 

What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel- 
yard, 

Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  the 
graves, 

And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the 
dead ! ” 

And  Merlin  answer’d  careless  of  her 
charge, 

“ A sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure  ; 

But  once  in  life  was  fluster’d  with  new 
wine, 

Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel- 
yard  ; 

Where  one  of  Satan’s  shepherdesses 
caught 

And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her 
master’s  mark  ; 

And  that  he  sinn’d  is  not  believable ; 

For,  look  upon  his  face  ! — but  if  he 
sinn’d, 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


283 


The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the 
blood, 

And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which 
brings  remorse, 

Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we 
be: 

Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose 
hymns 

Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse 
than  all. 

But  is  your  spleen  froth’d  out,  or  have 
ye  more  ? ” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  frowning  yet 
in  wrath  : 

“ O ay ; what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot, 
friend 

Traitor  or  true  ? that  commerce  with 
the  Queen, 

I ask  you,  is  it  clamor’d  by  the  child, 

Or  whisper’d  in  the  corner'?  do  ye 
know  it?  ” 

To  which  he  answer’d  sadly,  “Yea, 
I know  it. 

Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at 
first, 

To  fetch  her,  and  she  watch’d  him 
from  her  walls. 

A rumor  runs,  she  took  him  for  the 
King, 

So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  : let  them  be. 

But  have  ye  no  one  word  of  loyal 
praise 

For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stain- 
less man  ? ” 

She  answer’d  with  a low  and  chuck- 
ling laugh : 

“ Man ! is  he  man  at  all,  who  knows 
and  winks  ? 

Sees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does, 
and  winks  ? 

By  which  the  good  King  means  to 
blind  himself, 

And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table 
Round 

To  all  the  foulness  that  they  work. 
Myself 

Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for 
womanhood) 


The  pretty,  popular  name  such  man- 
hood earns, 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all 
their  crime ; 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown’d  King, 
coward,  and  fool.” 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart, 
loathing,  said  : 

“ 0 true  and  tender ! 0 my  liege  and 

King ! 

0 selfless  man  and  stainless  gentle- 
man, 

Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye- 
witness fain 

Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women 
pure ; 

How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  inter- 
preters, 

From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 

To  things  with  every  sense  as  false 
and  foul 

As  the  poach’d  filth  that  floods  the 
middle  street, 

Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted 
blame ! ” 

But  Vivien,  deeming  Merlin  over- 
borne 

By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let 
her  tongue 

Rage  like  a fire  among  the  noblest 
names, 

Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole 
self, 

Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 

Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad 
clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she 
will’d. 

He  dragg’d  his  eyebrow  bushes  down, 
and  made 

A snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow 
eyes, 

And  mutter’d  in  himself,  “ Tell  her  the 
charm  ! 

So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 

To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it 
not 

So  will  she  rail.  What  did  the  wan- 
ton say  ? 


284 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


* Not  mount  as  high  ; ’ we  scarce  can 
sink  as  low : 

For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and 
earth, 

But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven 
and  Hell. 

I know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends 
of  old ; 

All  brave,  and  many  generous,  and 
some  chaste. 

She  cloaks  the  scar  of  some  repulse 
with  lies  ; 

I well  believe  she  tempted  them  and 
fail’d, 

Being  so  bitter : for  fine  plots  may 
fail, 

Tho’  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well 
as  face 

With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not 
theirs. 

I will  not  let  her  know  : nine  tithes  of 
times 

Face-flatterer  and  backbiter  are  the 
same. 

And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  im- 
pute a crime 

Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  them- 
selves, 

W anting  the  mental  range ; or  low 
desire 

Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level 
all; 

Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain 
to  the  plain, 

To  leave  an  equal  baseness ; and  in 
this 

Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if 
they  find 

Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a name  of 
note, 

Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so 
small, 

Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane 
delight, 

And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of 
clay, 

Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and 
see 

Her  godlike  head  crown’d  with  spir- 
itual fire, 

And  touching  other  worlds.  I am 
weary  of  her.” 


He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in 
whispers  part, 

Half-suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 

And  many-winter’d  fleece  of  throat 
and  chin. 

But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of 
his  mood, 

And  hearing  “ harlot  ” mutter’d  twice 
or  thrice, 

Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and 
stood 

Stiff  as  a viper  frozen ; loathsome 
sight, 

How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and 
love, 

Flash’d  the  bare-grinning  skeleton  of 
death ! 

White  was  her  cheek;  sharp  breaths 
of  anger  puff’d 

Her  fairy  nostril  out ; her  hand  half- 
clench’d 

Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to 
her  belt, 

And  feeling;  had  she  found  a dagger 
there 

(For  in  a wink  the  false  love  turns 
to  hate) 

She  would  have  stabb’d  him  ; but  she 
found  it  not : 

His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she 
took 

To  bitter  weeping  like  a beaten  child, 

A long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 

Then  her  false  voice  made  way,  broken 
with  sobs : 

“ O crueller  than  was  ever  told  in 
tale, 

Or  sung  in  song ! O vainly  lavish’d 
love ! 

O cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or 
strange, 

Or  seeming  shameful  — for  what 
shame  in  love, 

So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is  — 
nothing 

Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his 
trust 

Who  call’d  her  what  he  call’d  her  — 
all  her  crime, 

All  — all  — the  wish  to  prove  him 
wholly  hers.” 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


285 


She  mused  a little,  and  then  clapt 
her  hands 

Together  with  a wailing  shriek,  and 
said : 

“ Stabb’d  through  the  heart’s  affec- 
tions to  the  heart! 

Seethed  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother’s 
milk ! 

Kill’d  with  a word  worse  than  a life 
of  blows ! 

I thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being 
great : 

0 God,  that  I had  loved  a smaller  man ! 

1 should  have  found  in  him  a greater 

heart. 

O,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion, 
saw 

The  knights,  the  court,  the  King,  dark 
in  your  light, 

Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than 
they  are, 

Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which 
I had 

To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 

Of  worship  — I am  answer’d,  and 
henceforth 

The  course  of  life  that  seem’d  so 
flowery  to  me 

With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only 
you, 

Becomes  the  sea-cliff  pathway  broken 
short, 

And  ending  in  a ruin  — nothing  left, 

But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and 
there, 

If  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life 
away, 

Kill’d  with  inutterable  unkindliness.” 

She  paused,  she  turn’d  away,  she 
hung  her  head, 

The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair, 
the  braid 

Slipt  and  uncoil’d  itself,  she  wept 
afresh, 

And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker 
toward  the  storm 

In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 

AVithin  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 

For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed 
her  true : 

Call’d  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 


“ Come  from  the  storm,”  and  having 
no  reply, 

Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and 
the  face 

Hand-hidden,  as  for  utmost  grief  or 
shame ; 

Then  thrice  essay’d,  by  tenderest- 
touching  terms, 

To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in 
vain. 

At  last  she  let  herself  be  conquer’d  by 
him, 

And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  re- 
turns, 

The  seeming-injured,  simple-hearted 
thing 

Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  set- 
tled there. 

There  while  she  sat,  half-f ailing  from 
his  knees, 

Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he 
saw 

The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  closed 
eye-lid  yet, 

About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in 
love, 

The  gentle  wizard  cast  a shielding 
arm. 

But  she  dislink’d  herself  at  once  and 
rose, 

Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and 
stood, 

A virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply 
wrong’d. 

Upright  and  flush’d  before  him  : then 
she  said : 

“ There  must  be  now  no  passages  of 
love 

Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  ever- 
more ; 

Since,  if  I be  what  I am  grossly  call’d, 

What  should  be  granted  which  your 
own  gross  heart 

Would  reckon  worth  the  taking?  I 
will  go. 

In  truth,  but  one  thing  now  — better 
have  died 

Thrice  than  have  ask’d  it  once  — could 
make  me  stay  — 

That  proof  of  trust  — so  often  ask’d 
in  vain ! 


286 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of 
yours, 

I find  with  grief  ! I might  believe  you 
then, 

Who  knows  1 once  more.  Lo  ! what 
was  once  to  me 

Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  hath 
grown 

The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 

Farewell ; think  gently  of  me,  for  I 
fear 

My  fate  or  folly,  passing  gayer  youth 

For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  thee 
still. 

But  ere  I leave  thee  let  me  swear  once 
more 

That  if  I schemed  against  thy  peace 
in  this, 

May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens 
o’er  me,  send 

One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else, 
may  make 

My  scheming  brain  a cinder,  if  I 
lie.” 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of 
heaven  a bolt 

(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above 
them)  struck, 

Furrowing  a giant  oak,  and  javelining 

With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of 
the  wood 

The  dark  earth  round.  He  raised  his 
eyes  and  saw 

The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro’ 
the  gloom. 

But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard 
her  oath, 

And  dazzled  by  the  livid-flickering 
fork, 

And  deafen’d  with  the  stammering 
cracks  and  claps 

That  follow’d,  flying  back  and  crying 
out, 

“ 0 Merlin,  tho’  you  do  not  love  me, 
save, 

Yet  save  me!”  clung  to  him  and 
hugg’d  him  close ; 

And  call’d  him  dear  protector  in  her 
fright, 

Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her 
fright, 


But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and 
hugg’d  him  close. 

The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her 
touch 

Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal 
warm’d. 

She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay 
tales : 

She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  faul 
she  wept 

Of  petulancy ; she  call’d  him  lord  and 
liege, 

Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of 
eve, 

Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passion- 
ate love 

Of  her  whole  life ; and  ever  overhead 

Bellow’d  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten 
branch 

Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 

Above  them ; and  in  change  of  glare 
and  gloom 

Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and 
came ; 

Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion 
spent, 

Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other 
lands, 

Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet 
once  more 

To  peace ; and  what  should  not  have 
been  had  been, 

For  Merlin,  overtalk’d  and  overworn, 

Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm, 
and  slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth 
the  charm 

Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 

And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 

And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame. 

Then  crying  “ I have  made  his  glory 
mine,” 

And  shrieking  out  “ 0 fool ! ” the  har- 
lot leapt 

Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket 
closed 

Behind  her,  and  the  forest  echo’d 
“ fool.” 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


287 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 
Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  loveable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 

High  in  her  chamber  up  a tower  to 
the  east 

Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lance- 
lot; 

Which  first  she  placed  where  morn- 
ing’s earliest  ray 

Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with 
the  gleam; 

Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure  fashion’d 
for  it 

A case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon’d  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her 
wit, 

A border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the 
nest. 

Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by 
day, 

Leaving  her  household  and  good 
father,  climb’d 

That  eastern  tower,  and  entering 
barr’d  her  door, 

Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 
shield, 

Now  guess’d  a hidden  meaning  in  his 
arms, 

Now  made  a pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a sword  had  beaten  in 
it, 

And  every  scratch  a lance  had  made 
upon  it, 

Conjecturing  when  and  where : this 
cut  is  fresh ; 

That  ten  years  back ; this  dealt  him 
at  Caerlyle ; 

That  at  Caerleon  ; this  at  Camelot : 
And  ah  God’s  mercy,  what  a stroke 
was  there ! 

And  here  a thrust  that  might  have 
kill’d,  but  God 

Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll’d  his 
enemy  down, 

And  saved  him : so  she  lived  in  fan- 
tasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that 
good  shield 


Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev’n 
his  name  ? 

He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to 
tilt 

For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond 
jousts, 

Which  Arthur  had  ordain’d,  and  by 
that  name 

Had  named  them,  since  a diamond 
was  the  prize. 

For  Arthur,  long  before  they 
crown’d  him  King, 

Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyon- 
nesse, 

Had  found  a glen,  gray  boulder  and 
black  tarn. 

A horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and 
clave 

Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain 
side : 

For  here  two  brothers,  one  a king, 
had  met 

And  fought  together  ; but  their  names 
were  lost; 

And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a 
blow ; 

And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 
abhorr’d : 

And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones 
were  bleach’d, 

And  lichen’d  into  color  with  the  crags : 

And  he,  that  once  was  king,  had  on  a 
crown 

Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four 
aside. 

And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the 
pass, 

All  in  a misty  moonshine,  unawares 

Had  trodden  that  crown’d  skeleton, 
and  the  skull 

Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the 
skull  the  crown 

Roll’d  into  light,  and  turning  on  its 
rims 

Fled  like  a glittering  rivulet  to  the 
tarn : 

And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he 
plunged,  and  caught, 

And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 

Heard  murmurs,  “Lo,  thou  likewise 
shalt  be  King.” 


288 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Thereafter,  when  a King,  he  had  the 
gems 

Pluck’d  from  the  crown,  and  show’d 
them  to  his  knights, 

Saying  “ These  jewels,  whereupon  I 
chanced 

Divinely,  are  the  kingdom’s,  not  the 
King’s  — 

For  public  use : henceforward  let 
there  be, 

Once  every  year,  a joust  for  one  of 
these : 

For  so  by  nine  years’  proof  we  needs 
must  learn 

Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves 
shall  grow 

In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we 
drive 

The  heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule 
the  land 

Hereafter,  which  God  hinder.”  Thus 
he  spoke : 

And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had 
been,  and  still 

Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the 
year, 

With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the 
Queen, 

When  all  were  won ; but  meaning  all 
at  once 

To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a boon 

Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never 
spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and 
the  last 

And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his 
court 

Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 
now 

Is  this  world’s  hugest,  let  proclaim  a 
joust 

At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew 
nigh 

Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to 
Guinevere, 

“ Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  can- 
not move 

To  these  fair  jousts  ? ” “Yea,  lord,” 
she  said,  “ye  know  it.” 

“Then  will  ye  miss,”  he  answer’d, 
“ the  great  deeds 


Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the 
lists, 

A sight  ye  love  to  look  on.”  And  the 
Queen 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  lan- 
guidly 

On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside 
the  King. 

He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 
there, 

“ Stay  with  me,  I am  sick  ; my  love  is 
more 

Than  many  diamonds,”  yielded;  and 
a heart 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the 
Queen 

(However  much  he  yearn’d  to  make 
complete 

The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined 
boon) 

Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth, 
and  say, 

“ Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is 
hardly  whole, 

And  lets  me  from  the  saddle ; ” and 
the  King 

Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and 
went  his  way. 

No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she 
began : 


“ To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot, 
much  to  blame ! 

Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts  ? 
the  knights 

Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 
crowd 

Will  murmur,  ‘Lo  the  shameless 
ones,  who  take 

Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  King 
is  gone  ! ’ ” 

Then  Lancelot  vext  at  having  lied  in 
vain : 

“ Are  ye  so  wise  ? ye  were  not  once 
so  wise, 

My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  ye 
loved  me  first. 

Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more 
account 

Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the 
mead, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


289 


When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each 
blade  of  grass, 

And  every  voice  is  nothing.  As  to 
knights, 

Them  surely  can  I silence  with  all 
ease. 

But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow’d 

Of  all  men:  many  a bard,  without 
offence. 

Has  link’d  our  names  together  in  his 
lay, 

Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery, 
Guinevere, 

The  pearl  of  beauty  : and  our  knights 
at  feast 

Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while 
the  King 

Would  listen  smiling.  How  then?  is 
there  more  ? 

Has  Arthur  spoken  aught  ? or  would 
yourself, 

Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir, 

Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless 
lord  ? ” 

She  broke  into  a little  scornful 
laugh : 

“ Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  fault- 
less King, 

That  passionate  perfection,  my  good 
lord  — 

But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in 
heaven  ? 

He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to 
me, 

He  never  had  a glimpse  of  mine  un- 
truth, 

He  cares  not  for  me  : only  here  to-day 

There  gleam’d  a vague  suspicion  in  his 
eyes  : 

Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper’d 
with  him — else 

Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 

And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 

To  make  them  like  himself : but, 
friend,  to  me 

He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at 
all: 

For  who  loves  me  must  have  a touch 
of  earth ; 

The  low  sun  makes  the  color : I am 
yours, 


Not  Arthur’s,  as  ye  know,  save  by 
the  bond. 

And  therefore  hear  my  words : go  to 
the  jousts : 

The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break 
our  dream 

When  sweetest ; and  the  vermin 
voices  here 

May  buzz  so  loud  — we  scorn  them, 
but  they  sting.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  the  chief 
of  knights : 

“And  with  what  face,  after  my  pre- 
text made, 

Shall  I appear,  O Queen,  at  Camelot, 

I 

Before  a King  who  honors  his  own 
work, 

As  if  it  were  his  God’s  ? ” 

“ Yea,”  said  the  Queen, 

“A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to 
rule, 

Else  had  he  not  lost  me  : but  listen  to 
me, 

If  I must  find  you  wit : we  hear  it 
said 

That  men  go  down  before  your  spear 
at  a touch, 

But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot ; your 
great  name, 

This  conquers : hide  it  therefore ; go 
unknown : 

Win ! by  this  kiss  you  will : and  our 
true  King 

Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  0 my 
knight, 

As  all  for  glory ; for  to  speak  him 
true, 

Ye  know  right  well,  how  meek  soe’er 
he  seem, 

No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 

He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than 
himself  : 

They  prove  to  him  his  work  : win  and 
return.” 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to 
horse, 

Wroth  at  himself.  Not  willing  to  be 
known, 


290 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


He  left  the  barren-beaten  thorough- 
fare, 

Chose  the  green  path  that  show’d  the 
rarer  foot, 

And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 

Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his 
way; 

Till  as  he  traced  a faintly-sliadow’d 
track, 

That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the 
dales 

Kan  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 

Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a hill,  the 
towers. 

Thither  he  made,  and  blew  the  gate- 
way horn. 

Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad- 
wrinkled  man, 

Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  dis- 
arm’d. 

And  Lancelot  marvell’d  at  the  word- 
less man ; 

And  issuing  found  the  lord  of  Astolat 

With  two  strong  sons,  Sir  Torre  and 
Sir  Lavaine, 

Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle 
court ; 

And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily 
maid 

Elaine,  his  daughter:  mother  of  the 
house 

There  was  not : some  light  jest 

among  them  rose 

With  laughter  dying  down  as  the 
great  knight  * 

Approach’d  them  : then  the  Lord  of 
Astolat : 

“ Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and 
by  what  name 

Invest  between  the  lips  1 for  by  thy 
state 

And  presence  I might  guess  thee 
chief  of  those, 

After  the  King,  who  eat  in  Arthur’s 
halls. 

Him  have  I seen : the  rest,  his  Table 
Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are 
unknown.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  the  chief 
of  knights : 


“ Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur’s  hall, 
and  known, 

What  I by  mere  mischance  have 
brought,  my  shield. 

But  since  I go  to  joust  as  one  un- 
known 

At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me 
not, 

Hereafter  ye  shall  know  me  — and 
the  shield  — 

I pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you 
have, 

Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device 
not  mine.” 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat, 
“ Here  is  Torre’s  : 

Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir 
Torre. 

And  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank 
enough. 

His  ye  can  have.”  Then  added  plain 
Sir  Torre, 

“Yea,  since  I cannot  use  it,  ye  may 
have  it.” 

Here  laugh’d  the  father  saying,  “Fie, 
Sir  Churl, 

Is  that  an  answer  for  a noble  knight  ? 

Allow  him  ! but  Lavaine,  my  younger 
here, 

He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,he  will  ride, 

Joust  for  it,  and  wrin,  and  bring  it  in 
an  hour, 

And  set  it  in  this  damsel’s  golden 
hair, 

To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  be- 
fore.” 

“Nay,  father,  nay  good  father, 
shame  me  not 

Before  this  noble  knight,”  said  young 
Lavaine, 

“ For  nothing.  Surely  I but  play’d 
on  Torre : 

He  seem’d  so  sullen,  vext  he  could 
not  go : 

A jest,  no  more ! for,  knight,  the 
maiden  dreamt 

That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in 
her  hand, 

And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  he 
held. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


291 


And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or 
stream, 

The  castle-well,  belike;  and  then  I 
said 

That  if  I went  and  if  I fought'  and 
won  it 

(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  our- 
selves) 

Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.  All 
was  jest. 

But,  father,  give  me  leave,  an  if  he 
will, 

To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble 
knight : 

Win  shall  I not,  but  do  my  best  to 
win  : 

Young  as  I am,  yet  would  I do  my 
best.” 

“ So  ye  will  grace  me,”  answer’d 
Lancelot, 

Smiling  a moment, “with  your  fellow- 
ship 

O’er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I 
lost  myself, 

Then  were  I glad  of  you  as  guide  and 
friend  : 

And  you  shall  win  this  diamond,  — 
as  I hear 

It  is  a fair  large  diamond, — if  ye 
may, 

And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye 
will.” 

“ A fair  large  diamond,”  added  plain 
Sir  Torre, 

“ Such  be  for  queens,  and  not  for  sim- 
ple maids.” 

Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost 
about, 

Flush’d  slightly  at  the  slight  dispar- 
agement 

Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  look- 
ing at  her, 

Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus 
return’d : 

“ If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is 
fair, 

And  only  queens  are  to  be  counted  so, 

Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who 
deem  this  maid 


Might  wear  as  fair  a jewel  as  is  on 
earth, 

Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like.” 

He  spoke  and  ceased : the  lily  maid 
Elaine, 

Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she 
look’d, 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  linea- 
ments. 

The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare -the 
Queen, 

In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his 
lord, 

Had  marr’d  his  face,  and  mark’d  it 
ere  his  time. 

Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with 
one, 

The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the 
world, 

Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it:  but  in 
him 

His  mood  was  often  like  a fiend,  and 
rose 

And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  soli- 
tudes 

For  agony,  who  was  yet  a living  soul. 

Marr’d  as  he  was,  he  seem’d  the  good- 
liest man 

That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  hall, 

And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her 
eyes. 

However  marr’d,  of  more  than  twice 
her  years, 

Seam’d  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on 
the  cheek, 

And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 
her  eyes 

And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which 
was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling 
of  the  court, 

Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude 
hall 

Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half 
disdain 

Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a smaller  time, 

But  kindly  man  moving  among  his 
kind : 

Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage 
of  their  best 


292 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE . 


And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  enter- 
tain’d. 

And  much  they  ask’d  of  court  and 
Table  Round, 

And  ever  well  and  readily  answer’d 
he  : 

But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at 
Guinevere, 

Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless 
man, 

Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years 
before, 

The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of 
his  tongue. 

“ He  learnt  and  warn’d  me  of  their 
fierce  design 

Against  my  house,  and  him  they 
caught  and  maim’d ; 

But  I,  my  sons,  and  little  daughter 
fled 

From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among 
the  woods 

By  the  great  river  in  a boatman’s 
hut. 

Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good 
Arthur  broke 

The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon 
hill.” 

“ 0 there,  great  lord,  doubtless,” 
Lavaine  said,  rapt 

By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion 
of  youth 

Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  “ you 
have  fought. 

O tell  us  — for  we  live  apart  — you 
know 

Of  Arthur’s  glorious  wars.”  And 
Lancelot  spoke 

And  answer’d  him  at  full,  as  having 
been 

With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all 
day  long 

Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  vio- 
lent Glem  ; 

And  in  the  four  loud  battles  by  the 
shore 

Of  Duglas ; that  on  Bassa ; then  the 
war 

That  thunder’d  in  and  out  the  gloomy 
skirts 

Of  Celidon  the  forest ; and  again 


By  castle  Gurnion,  where  the  glorious 
King 

Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady’s 
Head, 

Carved  of  one  emerald  center’d  in  a 
sun 

Of  silver  rays,  that  lighten’d  as  he 
breathed ; 

And  at  Caerleon  had  he  helped  his 
lord, 

When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild 
white  Horse 

Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering  ; 

And  up  in  Agned-Cathregonion  too, 

And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of 
Trath  Treroit, 

Where  many  a heathen  fell ; “ and  on 
the  mount 

Of  Badon  I myself  beheld  the  King 

Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table 
Round, 

And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and 
him, 

And  break  them ; and  I saw  him,  after, 
stand 

High  on  a heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to 
plume 

Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen 
blood, 

And  seeing  me,  with  a great  voice  he 
cried, 

‘ They  are  broken,  they  are  broken ! ’ 
for  the  King, 

However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor 
cares 

For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the 
jousts  — 

For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down, 
he  laughs 

Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men 
than  he  — 

Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of 
God 

Fills  him  : I never  saw  his  like  : there 
lives 

No  greater  leader.” 

While  he  utter’d  this, 

Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily 
maid, 

“ Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord ; ” 
and  when  he  fell 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


293 


From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleas- 
antry — 

Being  mirthful  he,  hut  in  a stately 
kind  — 

She  still  took  note  that  when  the 
living  smile 

Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came 
a cloud 

Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which 
again, 

Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and 
fro 

The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him 
cheer, 

There  brake  a sudden-beaming  ten- 
derness 

Of  manners  and  of  nature : and  she 
thought 

That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance, 
for  her. 

And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her 
lived, 

As  when  a painter,  poring  on  a face, 

Divinely  thro’  all  hindrance  finds  the 
man 

Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his 
face, 

The  shape  and  color  of  a mind  and 
life, 

Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 

And  fullest;  so  the  face  before  her 
lived, 

Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence, 
full 

Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from 
her  sleep. 

Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the 
thought 

She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet 
Lavaine. 

First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she 
stole 

Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitat- 
ing: 

Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in 
the  court, 

“ This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it  ? ” 
and  Lavaine 

Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out 
the  tower. 

There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot 
turn’d,  and  smooth’d 


The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to 
himself. 

Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand, 
she  drew 

Nearer  and  stood.  He  look’d,  and 
more  amazed 

Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him, 
saw 

The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy 
light. 

He  had  not  dream’d  she  was  so  beau- 
tiful. 

Then  came  on  him  a sort  of  sacred 
fear, 

For  silent,  tho’  he  greeted  her,  she 
stood 

Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a God’s. 

Suddenly  flash’d  on  her  a wild  desire, 

That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the 
tilt. 

She  braved  a riotous  heart  in  asking 
for  it. 

“Fair  lord,  whose  name  I know  not  — 
noble  it  is, 

I well  believe,  the  noblest  — will  you 
wear 

My  favor  at  this  tourney  'i  ” “Nay,” 
said  he, 

“Fair  lady,  since  I never  yet  have 
worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know 
me,  know.” 

“Yea,  so,”  she  answer’d;  “then  in 
wearing  mine 

Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble 
lord, 

That  those  who  know  should  know 
you.”  And  he  turn’d 

Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his 
mind, 

And  found  it  true,  and  answer’d 
“ True,  my  child. 

Well,  I will  wear  it  : fetch  it  out  to 
me : 

What  is  it  % ” and  she  told  him  “ A red 
sleeve 

Broider’d  with  pearls,”  and  brought 
it : then  he  bound 

Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a smile 

Saying,  “ I never  yet  have  done  so 
much 


294 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


For  any  maiden  living,”  and  the  blood 

Sprang  to  her  face  and  fill’d  her  with 
delight ; 

But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when 
Lavaine 

Returning  brought  the  yet-unblazon’d 
shield, 

His  brother’s ; which  he  gave  to 
Lancelot, 

Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair 
Elaine : 

Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have 
my  shield 

In  keeping  till  I come.”  “ A grace  to 
me,” 

She  answer’d,  “twice  to-day.  I am 
your  squire  ! ” 

Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing, 
“ Lily  maid, 

For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 

In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color 
back ; 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice  : now  get  you 
hence  to  bed  : ” 

So  kiss’d  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his 
own  hand, 

And  thus  they  moved  away : she 
stay’d  a minute, 

Then  made  a sudden  step  to  the  gate, 
and  there  — 

Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the 
serious  face 

Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother’s 
kiss  — 

Paused  by  the  gateway,  standing  near 
the  shield 

In  silence,  while  she  watch’d  their 
arms  far-off 

Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the 
downs. 

Then  to  her  tower  she  climb’d,  and 
took  the  shield, 

There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions 
past  away 

Far  o’er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 
downs, 

To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there 
lived  a knight 

Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty 
years 


A hermit,  who  had  pray’d,  labor’d  and 
pray’d, 

And  ever  laboring  had  scoop’d  him- 
self 

In  the  white  rock  a chapel  and  a hall 

On  massive  columns,  like  a shorecliff 
cave, 

And  cells  and  chambers  : all  were  fair 
and  dry ; 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows 
underneath 

Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky 
roofs ; 

And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen- 
trees 

And  poplars  made  a noise  of  falling 
showers. 

And  thither  wending  there  that  night 
they  bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from 
underground, 

And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro’ 
the  cave, 

They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and 
rode  away : 

Then  Lancelot  saying,  “ Hear,  but 
hold  my  name 

Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake.” 

Abash’d  Lavaine,  w’hose  instant  rev- 
erence, 

Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 
own  praise, 

But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  “ Is  it 
indeed  ? ” 

And  after  muttering  “ The  great 
Lancelot,” 

At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer’d, 
“ One, 

One  have  I seen  — that  other,  our 
liege  lord, 

The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain’s  King 
of  kings, 

Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 

He  will  be  there  — then  were  I stricken 
blind 

That  minute,  I might  say  that  I had 
seen.” 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they 
reach’d  the  lists 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


295 


By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his 
eyes 

Run  thro’  the  peopled  gallery  which 
half  round 

Lay  like  a rainbow  fall’n  upon  the 
grass, 

Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King,, 
who  sat 

Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be 
known, 

Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 
clung, 

And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed 
in  gold, 

And  from  the  carven-work  behind 
him  crept 

Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to 
make 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest 
of  them 

Thro’  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innu- 
merable 

Fled  ever  thro’  the  woodwork,  till  they 
found 

The  new  design  wherein  they  lost 
themselves, 

Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the 
work  : 

And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o’er  him 
set, 

Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  name- 
less king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer’d  young 
Lavaine  and  said, 

“ Me  you  call  great : mine  is  the 
firmer  seat, 

The  truer  lance : but  there  is  many  a 
youth 

Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  I 
am 

And  overcome  it;  and  in  me  there 
dwells 

No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off 
touch 

Of  greatness  to  know  well  I am  not 
great : 

There  is  the  man.”  And  Lavaine 
gaped  upon  him 

As  on  a thing  miraculous,  and  anon 

The  trumpets  blew ; and  then  did 
either  side, 


They  that  assail’d,  and  they  that  held 
the  lists, 

Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly 
move, 

Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so 
furiously 

Shock,  that  a man  far-off  might  well 
perceive, 

If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield, 

The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a low  thun- 
der of  arms. 

And  Lancelot  bode  a little,  till  he  saw 

Which  were  the  weaker ; then  he 
hurl’d  into  it 

Against  the  stronger : little  need  to 
speak 

Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory  ! King,  duke, 
earl, 

Count,  baron  — whom  he  smote,  he 
overthrew. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot’s 
kith  and  kin, 

Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that 
held  the  lists, 

Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a 
stranger  knight 

Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the 
deeds 

Of  Lancelot;  and  one  said  to  the 
other,  “ Lo  ! 

What  is  he  1 I do  not  mean  the  force 
alone  — 

The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  ! 

Is  it  not  Lancelot  ? ” “ When  has 

Lancelot  worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists.? 

Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know 
him,  know.” 

“ How  then  ? who  then  ? ” a fury 
seized  them  all, 

A fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 

Of  Lancelot,  and  a glory  one  with 
theirs. 

They  couch’d  their  spears  and  prick’d 
their  steeds,  and  thus, 

Their  plumes  driv’n  backward  by  the 
wind  they  made 

In  moving,  all  together  down  upon 
him 

Bare,  as  a wild  wave  in  the  wide 
North-sea, 


296 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit, 
hears,  with  all 

Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against 
the  skies, 

Down  on  a bark,  and  overbears  the 
bark, 

And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  over- 
bore 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a 
spear 

Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and 
a spear 

Prick’d  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and 
the  head 

Pierced  thro’  his  side,  and  there  snapt, 
and  remain’d. 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  wor- 
shipfully ; 

He  bore  a knight  of  old  repute  to  the 
earth, 

And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot 
where  he  lay. 

He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony, 
got, 

But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet 
endure, 

And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 

His  party,  — tho’  it  seem’d  half- 
miracle 

To  those  he  fought  with,  — drave  his 
kith  and  kin, 

And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held 
the  lists, 

Back  to  the  barrier;  then  the  trum- 
pets blew 

Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore 
the  sleeve 

Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ; and  all  the 
knights, 

His  party,  cried  “ Advance  and  take 
thy  prize 

The  diamond ; ” but  he  answer’d, 
“ Diamond  me 

No  diamonds!  for  God’s  love,  a little 
air! 

Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is 
death ! 

Hence  will  I,  and  I charge  you,  follow 
me  not.” 

He  spoke,  and  vanish’d  suddenly 
from  the  field 


With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar 
grove. 

There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid, 
and  sat, 

Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  “Draw  the 
lance-head : ” 

“ Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,”  said 
Lavaine, 

“ I dread  me,  if  I draw  it,  you  will 
die.” 

But  he,  “ I die  already  with  it : draw  — 

Draw,”  — and  Lavaine  drew,  and  Sir 
Lancelot  gave 

A marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly 
groan, 

And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and 
down  he  sank 

For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon’d 
away. 

Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare 
him  in, 

There  stanch’d  his  wound ; and  there, 
in  daily  doubt 

Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a 
week 

Hid  from  the  wide  world’s  rumor  by 
the  grove 

Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling 
showers, 

And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he 
lay. 


But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled 
the  lists, 

His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North 
and  West, 

Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  des- 
olate isles, 

Came  round  their  great  Pendragon, 
saying  to  him, 

“ Lo,  Sire,  our  knight,  thro’  whom  we 
won  the  day, 

Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath 
left  his  prize 

Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is 
death.” 

“ Heaven  hinder,”  said  the  King,  “ that 
such  an  one, 

So  great  a knight  as  we  have  seen 
to-day  — 

He  seem’d  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


297 


Yea,  twenty  times  I thought  him 
Lancelot  — 

He  must  not  pass  uncared  for. 
Wherefore,  rise, 

0 Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 

knight. 

Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he 
be  near. 

1 charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to 

horse. 

And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes 
not  one  of  you 

Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly 
given : 

His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.  We 
will  do  him 

No  customary  honor  : since  the  knight 

Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the 
prize, 

Ourselves  will  send  it  after.  Rise  and 
take 

This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and 
return, 

And  bring  us  where  he  is,  and  how  he 
fares, 

And  cease  not  from  your  quest  until 
ye  find.” 

So  saying,  from  the  carven  flower 
above, 

To  which  it  made  a restless  heart,  he 
took, 

And  gave,  the  diamond : then  from 
where  he  sat 

At  Arthur’s  right,  with  smiling  face 
arose, 

With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart, 
a Prince 

In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his 
May, 

Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous, 
fair  and  strong, 

And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and 
Geraint 

And  Gareth,  a good  knight,  but 
therewithal 

Sir  Modred’s  brother,  and  the  child 
of  Lot, 

Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and 
now 

Wroth  that  the  King’s  command  to 
sally  forth 


In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made 
him  leave 

The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights 
and  kings. 


So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and 
went ; 

While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in 
mood, 

Past,  thinking  “Is  it  Lancelot  who 
hath  come 

Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for 
gain 

Of  glory,  and  hath  added  wound  to 
wound, 

And  ridd’n  away  to  die  ? ” So  fear’d 
the  King, 

And,  after  two  days’  tarriance  there, 
return’d. 

Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  em- 
bracing ask’d, 

“ Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ? ” “ Nay, 

lord,”  she  said. 

“ And  where  is  Lancelot  % ” Then  the 
Queen  amazed, 

“Was  he  not  with  you?  won  he  not 
your  prize  ? ” 

“ Nay,  but  one  like  him.”  “ Why  that 
like  was  he.” 

And  when  the  King  demanded  how 
she  knew, 

Said,  “ Lord,  no  sooner  had  ye  parted 
from  us, 

Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a common 
talk 

That  men  went  down  before  his  spear 
at  a touch, 

But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;  his 
great  name 

Conquer’d ; and  therefore  would  he 
hide  his  name 

From  all  men,  ev’n  the  King,  and  to 
this  end 

Had  made  the  pretext  of  a hindering 
wound, 

That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all, 
and  learn 

If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught 
decay’d ; 

And  added,  ‘Qur  true  Arthur,  when 
he  learns. 


298 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 

Of  purer  glory.’  ” 

Then  replied  the  King : 

“ Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it 
been, 

In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth, 

To  have  trusted  me  as  he  hath  trusted 
thee. 

Surely  his  King  and  most  familiar 
friend 

Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.  True, 
indeed, 

Albeit  I know  my  knights  fantastical, 

So  fine  a fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 

Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter  : 
now  remains 

But  little  cause  for  laughter  : his  own 
kin  — 

111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love 
him,  this  ! — 

His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set 
upon  him ; 

So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from 
the  field : 

Yet  good  news  too : for  goodly  hopes 
are  mine 

That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a lonely 
heart. 

He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his 
helm 

A sleeve  of  scarlet,  broider’d  with 
great  pearls, 

Some  gentle  maiden’s  gift.” 

“ Yea,  lord,”  she  said, 

“ Thy  hopes  are  mine,”  and  saying 
that,  she  choked, 

And  sharply  turn’d  about  to  hide  her 
face, 

Past  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung 
herself 

Down  on  the  great  King’s  couch,  and 
writhed  upon  it, 

And  clench’d  her  fingers  till  they  bit 
the  palm, 

And  shriek’d  out  “Traitor”  to  the 
unhearing  wall, 

Then  flash’d  into  wild  tears,  and  rose 
again, 

And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud 
and  pale. 


Gawain  the  while  thro’  all  the  region 
round 

Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of 
the  quest, 

Touch’d  at  all  points,  except  the  pop- 
lar grove, 

And  came  at  last,  tho’  late,  to  Astolat : 

Whom  glittering  in  enamell’d  arms 
the  maid 

Glanced  at,  and  cried,  “ What  news 
from  Camelot,  lord  7 

What  of  the  knight  with  the  red 
sleeve  ? ” “ He  won.” 

“I  knew  it,”  she  said.  “But  parted 
from  the  jousts 

Hurt  in  the  side,”  whereat  she  caught 
her  breath ; 

Thro’  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp 
lance  go ; 

Thereon  she  smote  her  hand : wellnigh 
she  swoon’d : 

And,  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at 
her,  came 

The  Lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom 
the  Prince 

Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what 
quest 

Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could 
not  find 

The  victor,  but  had  ridd’n  a random 
round 

To  seek  him,  and  had  wearied  of  the 
search. 

To  whom  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  “ Bide 
with  us, 

And  ride  no  more  at  random,  noble 
Prince ! 

Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left 
a shield; 

This  will  he  send  or  come  for : fur- 
thermore 

Our  son  is  with  him;  we  shall  hear 
anon, 

Needs  must  we  hear.”  To  this  the 
courteous  Prince 

Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 

Courtesy  with  a touch  of  traitor 
in  it, 

And  stay’d  ; and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair 
Elaine : 

Where  could  be  found  face  daintier  1 
then  her  shape 


LAN  CEL  O T AND  ELAINE. 


299 


From  forehead  down  to  foot,  perfect 
— again 

From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely 
turn’d  : 

“ Well  — if  I bide,  lo  ! this  wild  flower 
for  me  ! ” 

And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden 
yews* 

And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon 
her 

With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a 
height 

Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and 
songs, 

Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden 
eloquence 

And  amorous  adulation,  till  the 
maid 

Rebell’d  against  it,  saying  to  him, 
“ Prince, 

O loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 

Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he 
left, 

Whence  you  might  learn  his  name  ? 
Why  slight  your  King, 

And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on, 
and  prove 

No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 

Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  her  at, 
and  went 

To  all  the  winds  ? ” “ Nay,  by  mine 
head,”  said  he, 

“I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in 
heaven, 

O damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue 
eyes ; 

But  an  ye  will  it  let  me  see  the 
shield.” 

And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  aryl 
Gawain  saw 

Sir  Lancelot’s  azure  lions,  crown’d 
with  gold, 

Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh, 
and  mock’d  : 

“ Right  was  the  King  ! our  Lancelot ! 
that  true  man  ! ” 

“And  right  was  I,”  she  answer’d 
merrily,  “ I, 

Who  dream’d  my  knight  the  greatest 
knight  of  all.” 

“ And  if  I dream’d,”  said  Gawain, 
“ that  you  love 


This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon ! lo, 
ye  know  it ! 

Speak  therefore : shall  I waste  myself 
in  vain  ? ” 

Full  simple  was  her  answer,  “What 
know  I % 

My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellow- 
ship ; 

And  I,  when  often  they  have  talk’d 
of  love, 

Wish’d  it  had  been  my  mother,  for 
they  talk’d, 

Meseem’d,  of  what  they  knew  not ; so 
myself  — 

I know  not  if  I know  what  true  love  is, 

But  if  I know,  then,  if  I love  not  him, 

I know  there  is  none  other  I can 
love.” 

“Yea,  by  God’s  death,”  said  he,  “ye 
love  him  well, 

But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all 
others  know, 

And  whom  he  loves.”  “ So  be  it,” 
cried  Elaine, 

And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved 
away : 

But  he  pursued  her,  calling,  “ Stay  a 
little  ! 

One  golden  minute’s  grace ! he  wore 
your  sleeve : 

Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I may 
not  name  1 

Must  our  true  man  change  like  a leaf 
at  last  1 

Nay  — like  enow : why  then,  far  be  it 
from  me 

To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his 
loves ! 

And,  damsel,  for  I deem  you  know 
full  well 

Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden, 
let  me  leave 

My  quest  with  you ; the  diamond  also  ; 
here ! 

For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to 
give  it ; 

And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have 
it 

From  your  own  hand ; and  whether 
he  love  or  not, 

A diamond  is  a diamond.  Fare  you 
well 


300 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


A thousand  times ! — a thousand  times 
farewell ! 

Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we 
two 

May  meet  at  court  hereafter:  there, 
I think, 

So  ye  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the 
court, 

We  two  shall  know  each  other.” 

Then  he  gave, 

And  slightly  kiss’d  the  hand  to  which 
he  gave, 

The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the 
quest 

Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he 
went, 

A true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence  to  the  court  he  past ; there 
told  the  King 

What  the  King  knew,  “ Sir  Lancelot 
is  the  knight.” 

And  added,  “ Sire,  my  liege,  so  much 
I learnt ; 

But  fail’d  to  find  him,  tho’  I rode  all 
round 

The  region : but  I lighted  on  the  maid 

Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ; she  loves  him ; 
and  to  her, 

Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest 
law, 

I gave  the  diamond : she  will  render  it ; 

For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hid- 
ing-place.” 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frown’d, 
and  replied, 

“Too  courteous  truly ! ye  shall  go  no 
more 

On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  for- 
get 

Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to 
kings.” 

He  spake  and  parted.  Wroth,  but 
all  in  awe, 

For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  with- 
out a word, 

Linger’d  that  other,  staring  after  him ; 

Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  off,  and 
buzz’d  abroad 

About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her 
love. 


All  ears  were  prick’d  at  once,  all 
tongues  were  loosed : 

“ The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lance- 
lot, 

Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Asto- 
lat.” 

Some  read  the  King’s  face,  some  the 
Queen’s,  and  all  $ 

Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be, 
but  most 

Predoom’d  her  as  unworthy.  One  old 
dame 

Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 
sharp  news. 

She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it 
before, 

But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have 
stoop’d  so  low, 

Marr’d  her  friend’s  aim  with  pale 
tranquillity. 

So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the 
court, 

Fire  in  dry  stubble  a nine-days’  won- 
der flared : 

Till  ev’n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice 
or  thrice 

Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the 
Queen, 

And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily 
maid 

Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen, 
who  sat 

With  lips  severely  placid,  felt  the 
knot 

Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet 
unseen 

Crush’d  the  wild  passion  out  against 
the  floor 

beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats 
became 

As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who 
pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 

Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever 
kept 

The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her 
heart, 

Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused 
alone, 

Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray 
face  and  said, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


301 


“ Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the 
fault 

Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and 
now, 

Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my 
wits  ? ” 

“Nay,”  said  he,  “surely.”  “Where- 
fore, let  me  hence,” 

She  answer’d,  “ and  find  out  our  dear 
Lavaine.” 

“Ye  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear 
Lavaine : 

Bide,”  answer’d  he:  “we  needs  must 
hear  anon 

Of  him,  and  of  that  other.”  “Ay,” 
she  said, 

“ And  of  that  other,  for  I needs  must 
hence 

And  find  that  other,  wheresoe’er  he 
be, 

And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  dia- 
mond to  him, 

Lest  I be  found  as  faithless  in  the 
quest 

As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the 
quest  to  me. 

Sweet  father,  I behold  him  in  my 
dreams 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
self, 

Death -pale,  for  lack  of  gentle 
maiden’s  aid. 

The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the 
more  bound, 

My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  service- 
able 

To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye 
know 

When  these  have  worn  their  tokens  : 
let  me  hence 

I pray  you.”  Then  her  father  nod- 
ding said, 

“ Ay,  ay,  the  diamond : wit  ye  well, 
my  child, 

Right  fain  wrere  I to  learn  this  knight 
were  whole, 

Being  our  greatest : yea,  and  you 
must  give  it  — 

And  sure  I think  this  fruit  is  hung 
too  high 

For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a 
queen’s  — 


Nay,  I mean  nothing : so  then,  get  you 
gone, 

Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go.” 

Lightly,  her  suit  allow’d,  she  slipt 
away, 

And  while  she  made  her  ready  for 
her  ride, 

Her  father’s  latest  word  humm’d  in 
her  ear, 

“ Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go,” 

And  changed  itself  and  echo’d  in  her 
heart, 

“ Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die.” 

But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook 
it  off, 

As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes 
at  us ; 

And  in  her  heart  she  answer’d  it  and 
said, 

“ What  matter,  so  I help  him  back  to 
life  ? ” 

Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre 
for  guide 

Rode  o’er  the  long  backs  of  the  busli- 
less  downs 

To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 

Came  on  her  brother  with  a happy 
face 

Making  a roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 

For  pleasure  all  about  a field  of 
flowers : 

Whom  when  she  saw,  “Lavaine,”  she 
cried,  “Lavaine, 

How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot  1 ” 
He  amazed, 

“Torre  and  Elaine!  why  here  ? Sir 
Lancelot ! 

How  know  ye  my  lord’s  name  is  Lan- 
celot ? ” 

But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 
her  tale, 

Then  turn’d  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his 
moods 

Left  them,  and  under  the  strange- 
statued  gate, 

Where  Arthur’s  wars  were  render’d 
mystically, 

Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his 
kin, 

His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at 
Camelot; 


302 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


And  her,  Lavaine  across  the  poplar 
grove 

Led  to  the  caves : there  first  she  saw 
the  casque 

Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall : her  scarlet 
sleeve, 

Tho’  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the 
pearls  away, 

Stream’d  from  it  still ; and  in  her 
heart  she  laugh’d, 

Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his 
helm, 

But  meant  once  more  perchance  to 
tourney  in  it. 

And  when  they  gain’d  the  cell  wherein 
he  slept, 

His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty 
hands 

Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a 
dream 

Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made 
them  move. 

Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek, 
unshorn, 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
self, 

Utter’d  a little  tender  dolorous  cry. 

The  sound  not  wonted  in  a place  so 
still 

Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he 
roll’d  his  eyes 

Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to 
him,  saying, 

“ Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by 
the  King : ” 

His  eyes  glisten’d : she  fancied  “ Is  it 
for  me  ? ” 

And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 
the  tale 

Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 
the  quest 

Assign’d  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she 
knelt 

Pull  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 

And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open 
hand. 

Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the 
child 

That  does  the  task  assign’d,  he  kiss’d 
her  face. 

At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the 
floor. 


“Alas,”  he  said,  “your  ride  hath 
wearied  you. 

Rest  must  you  have.”  “No  rest  for 
me,”  she  said; 

“ Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I am  at 
rest.” 

What  might  she  mean  by  that  1 his 
large  black  eyes, 

Yet  larger  thro’  his  leanness,  dwelt 
upon  her, 

Till  all  her  heart’s  sad  secret  blazed 
itself 

In  the  heart’s  colors  on  her  simple 
face ; 

And  Lancelot  look’d  and  was  perplext 
in  mind, 

And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more ; 

But  did  not  love  the  color ; woman’s 
love, 

Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so 
turn’d 

Sighing,  and  feign’d  a sleep  until  he 
slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro’ 
the  fields, 

And  past  beneath  the  weirdly-sculp- 
tured gates 

Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin ; 

There  bode  the  night : but  woke  with 
dawn,  and  past 

Down  thro’  the  dim  rich  city  to  the 
the  fields, 

Thence  to  the  cave : so  day  by  day 
she  past 

In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 

Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended 
him, 

And  likewise  many  a night : and 
Lancelot 

Would,  tho’  he  call’d  his  wound  a 
little  hurt 

Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole, 
at  times 

Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony, 
seem 

Uncourteous,  even  he : but  the  meek 
maid 

Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to 
him 

Meeker  than  any  child  to  a rough 
nurse, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE . 


303 


Milder  than  any  mother  to  a sick  child, 

And  never  woman  yet,  since  man’s 
first  fall, 

Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep 
love 

Upbore  her;  till  the  hermit,  skill’d  in 
all 

The  simples  and  the  science  of  that 
time, 

Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved 
his  life. 

And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple 
blush, 

Would  call  her  friend  and  sister, 
sweet  Elaine, 

Would  listen  for  her  coming  and 
regret 

Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  ten- 
derly, 

And  loved  her  with  all  love  except 
the  love 

Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love 
their  best, 

Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 
death 

In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 

And  peradventure  had  he  seen  her 
first 

She  might  have  made  this  and  that 
other  world 

Another  world  for  the  sick  man  ; but 
now 

The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten’d 
him, 

His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 

And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely 
true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sick- 
ness made 

Full  many  a holy  vow  and  pure  re- 
solve. 

These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could 
not  live : 

For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 
again, 

Full  often  the  bright  image  of  one 
face, 

Making  a treacherous  quiet  in  his 
heart, 

Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a 
cloud. 


Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly 
grace 

Beam’d  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he 
answer’d  not, 

Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew 
right  well 

What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but 
what  this  meant 

She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm’d 
her  sight, 

And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the 
fields 

Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 

She  murmur’d,  “Vain,  in  vain:  it 
cannot  be. 

He  will  not  love  me  : how  then  ? must 
I die  ? ” 

Then  as  a little  helpless  innocent  bird, 

That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few 
notes, 

Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o’er  and 
o’er 

For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 

Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 

Went  half  the  night  repeating,  “Must 
I die .?  ” 

And  now  to  right  she  turn’d,  and  now 
to  left, 

And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in 
rest ; 

And  “ Him  or  death,”  she  mutter’d, 
“ death  or  him,” 

Again  and  like  a burthen,  “Him  or 
death.” 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot’s  deadly  hurt 
was  whole, 

To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three. 

There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her 
sweet  self 

In  that  wherein  she  deem’d  she  look’d 
her  best, 

She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she 
thought 

“ If  I be  loved,  these  are  my  festal 
robes, 

If  not,  the  victim’s  flowers  before  he 
fall.” 

And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the 
maid 

That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift 
of  him 


304 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


For  her  own  self  or  hers  ; “ and  do  not 
shun 

To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your 
true  heart ; 

Such  service  have  ye  done  me,  that  I 
make 

My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 
am  I 

In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I will  I 
can.” 

Then  like  a ghost  she  lifted  up  her 
face, 

But  like  a ghost  without  the  power  to 
speak. 

And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld 
her  wish, 

And  bode  among  them  yet  a little 
space 

Till  he  should  learn  it ; and  one  morn 
it  chanced 

He  found  her  in  among  the  garden 
yews, 

And  said,  “ Delay  no  longer,  speak 
your  wish, 

Seeing  I go  to-day  ” : then  out  she 
brake : 

“ Going  ? and  we  shall  never  see  you 
more. 

And  I must  die  for  want  of  one  bold 
word.” 

“ Speak : that  I live  to  hear,”  he  said, 
“is  yours.” 

Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she 
spoke : 

“ I have  gone  mad.  I love  you : let 
me  die.” 

“ Ah,  sister,”  answer’d  Lancelot, 
“ what  is  this  ? ” 

And  innocently  extending  her  white 
arms, 

“Your  love,”  she  said,  “your  love  — 
to  be  your  wife.” 

And  Lancelot  answer’d,  “ Had  I chosen 
to  wed, 

I had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet 
Elaine: 

But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of 
mine.” 

“No,  no,”  she  cried,  “I  care  not  to  be 
wife, 

But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your 
face, 


To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  tliro’ 
the  world.” 

And  Lancelot  answer’d,  “Nay,  the 
world,  the  world, 

All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a stupid 
heart 

To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a 
tongue 

To  blare  its  own  interpretation  — nay, 

Full  ill  then  should  I quit  your 
brother’s  love, 

And  your  good  father’s  kindness.” 
And  she  said, 

“ Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your 
face  — 

Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are 
done.” 

“Nay,  noble  maid,”  he  answer’d,  “ten 
times  nay ! 

This  is  not  love  : but  love’s  first  flash 
in  youth, 

Most  common  : yea,  I know  it  of  mine 
own  self : 

And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your 
own  self 

Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower 
of  life 

To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice 
your  age : 

And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  'are  and 
sweet 

Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  woman- 
hood, 

More  specially  should  your  good 
knight  be  poor, 

Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  ter- 
ritory 

Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond 
the  seas, 

So  that  would  make  you  happy : 
furthermore, 

Ev’n  to  the  death,  as  tho’  ye  were  my 
blood, 

In  all  your  quarrels  will  I be  your 
knight. 

This  will  I do,  dear  damsel,  for  your 
sake, 

And  more  than  this  I cannot.” 

While  he  spoke 

She  neither  blush’d  nor  shook,  but 
deathly-pale 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


305 


Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then 
replied : 

“Of  all  this  will  I nothing;  ” and  so 
fell, 

And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to 
her  tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro’  those 
black  walls  of  yew 

Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father : 
“ Ay,  a flash, 

I fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom 
dead. 

Too  courteous  are  ye,  fair  Lord  Lance- 
lot. 

I pray  you,  use  some  rough  dis- 
courtesy 

To  blunt  or  break  her  passion.” 

Lancelot  said, 

“ That  were  against  me : what  I can 
I will ; ” 

And  there  that  day  remain’d,  and 
toward  even 

Sent  for  his  shield  : full  meekly  rose 
the  maid, 

Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 
shield ; 

Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon 
the  stones, 

Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back, 
and  look’d 

Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her 
sleeve  had  gone. 

And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking 
sound ; 

And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 

That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  look- 
ing at  him. 

And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 
his  hand, 

Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 

This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he 
used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden 
sat : 

His  very  shield  was  gone ; only  the 
case, 

Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor, 
left. 


But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 
form’d 

And  grew  between  her  and  the  pic- 
tured wall. 

Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low 
tones, 

“ Have  comfort,”  whom  she  greeted 
quietly. 

Then  came  her  brethren  saying, 
“ Peace  to  thee, 

Sweet  sister,”  whom  she  answer’d  with 
all  calm. 

But  when  they  left  her  to  herself 
again, 

Death,  like  a friend’s  voice  from  a dis- 
tant field 

Approaching  thro’  the  darkness, 
call’d ; the  owls 

Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she 
mixt 

Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted 
glooms 

Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  the 
wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a little 
song, 

And  call’d  her  song  “ The  Song  of 
Love  and  Death,” 

And  sang  it : sweetly  could  she  make 
and  sing. 

“ Sweet  is  true  love  tho’  given  in 
vain,  in  vain  ; 

And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end 
to  pain : 

I know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

“Love,  art  thou  sweet  1 then  bitter 
death  must  be  : 

Love,  thou  art  bitter ; sweet  is  death 
to  me. 

0 Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me 
die. 


“ Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made 
to  fade  away, 

Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us 
loveless  clay, 

I know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 


306 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


“ I fain  would  follow  love,  if  that 
could  be ; 

I needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls 
for  me  ; 

Call  and  I follow,  I follow  ! let  me 
die.” 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her 
voice,  and  this, 

All  in  a fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 

That  shook  the  tower,  the  brothers 
heard,  and  thought 

With  shuddering,  “ Hark  the  Phan- 
tom of  the  house 

That  ever  shrieks  before  a death,” 
and  call’d 

The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and 
fear 

Pan  to  her,  and  lo ! the  blood-red  light 
of  dawn 

Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling,  “Let 
me  die ! ” 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a word  we 
know, 

Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so 
well 

Becomes  a wonder,  and  we  know  not 
why, 

So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face,  and 
thought 

“ Is  this  Elaine  1 ” till  back  the  maiden 
fell, 

Then  gave  a languid  hand  to  each, 
and  lay, 

Speaking  a still  good-morrow  with  her 
eyes. 

At  last  she  said,  “ Sweet  brothers,  yes- 
ter-night 

I seem’d  a curious  little  maid  again, 

As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among 
the  woods, 

And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with 
the  flood 

Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman’s 
boat. 

Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the 
cape 

That  has  the  poplar  on  it:  there  ye 
fixt 

Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the 
tide, 


And  yet  I cried  because  ye  would  not 
pass 

Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining 
flood 

Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the 
King. 

And  yet  ye  would  not : but  this  night 
I dream ’d 

That  I was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 

And  then  I said,  ‘ Now  shall  I have 
my  will : ’ 

And  there  I woke,  but  still  the  wish 
remain’d. 

So  let  me  hence  that  I may  pass  at 
last 

Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the 
flood, 

Until  I find  the  palace  of  the  King. 

There  will  I enter  in  among  them  all, 

And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock 
at  me ; 

But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder 
at  me, 

And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse 
at  me  ; 

Gawain,  who  bade  a thousand  fare- 
wells to  me, 

Lancelot,  who  coldly  went,  nor  bade 
me  one  : 

And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and 
my  love, 

And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity 
me, 

And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome 
me, 

And  after  my  long  voyage  I shall 
rest ! ” 


“ Peace,”  said  her  father,  “ O my 
child,  ye  seem 

Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours 
to  go 

So  far,  being  sick  ? and  wherefore 
would  ye  look 

On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who 
scorns  us  all  ? ” 


Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to 
heave  and  move, 

And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and 
say, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


307 


“ I never  loved  him : an  I meet  with 
him, 

I care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 

Then  will  I strike  at  him  and  strike 
him  down. 

Give  me  good  fortune,  I will  strike 
him  dead. 

For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the 
house.” 

To  whom  the  gentle  sister  made 
reply, 

“ Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor 
be  wroth. 

Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot’s 
fault 

Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to 
love 

Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the 
highest.” 

“ Highest  ? ” the  father  answer’d, 
echoing  “ highest  ? ” 

(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in 
her)  “nay, 

Daughter,  I know  not  what  you  call 
the  highest ; 

But  this  I know,  for  all  the  people 
know  it, 

He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open 
shame : 

And  she  returns  his  love  in  open 
shame ; 

If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low  1 ” 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Asto- 
lat : 

“ Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick 
am  I 

For  anger  : these  are  slanders  : never 
yet 

Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 

He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made 
a foe. 

But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 

One  peerless,  without  stain  : so  let  me 
pass, 

My  father,  howsoe’er  I seem  to  you, 

Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God’s 
best 

And  greatest,  tho’  my  love  had  no 
return : 


Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to 
live, 

Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your 
own  desire  ; 

For  if  I could  believe  the  things  you 
say 

I should  but  die  the  sooner;  wherefore 
cease, 

Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly 
man 

Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean, 
and  die.” 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come 
and  gone, 

She  with  a face,  bright  as  for  sin  for- 
given, 

Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she 
devised 

A letter,  word  for  word ; and  when  he 
ask’d 

“ Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear 
lord  ? 

Then  will  I bear  it  gladly ; ” she  re- 
plied, 

“ For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all 
the  world, 

But  I myself  must  bear  it.”  Then  he 
wrote 

The  letter  she  devised ; which  being 
writ 

And  folded,  “ O sweet  father,  tender 
and  true, 

Deny  me  not,”  she  said  — “ye  never 
yet 

Denied  my  fancies  — this,  however 
strange, 

My  latest : lay  the  letter  in  my 
hand 

A little  ere  I die,  and  close  the  hand 

Upon  it ; I shall  guard  it  even  in 
death. 

And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out 
my  heart, 

Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I 
died 

For  Lancelot’s  love,  and  deck  it  like 
the  Queen’s 

For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the 
Queen 

In  all  I have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on 
it. 


308 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  let  there  be  prepared  a chariot- 
bier 

To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a barge 

Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 

I go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the 
Queen. 

There  surely  I shall  speak  for  mine 
own  self, 

And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me 
so  well. 

And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man 
alone 

Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row, 
and  he 

Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the 
doors.” 

She  ceased : her  father  promised ; 
whereupon 

She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem’d 
her  death 

Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the 
blood. 

But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on 
the  eleventh 

Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand, 

And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she 
died. 

So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from 
underground, 

Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with 
bent  brows 

Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 

Past  like  a shadow  thro’  the  field, 
that  shone 

Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon 
the  barge, 

Pall’d  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite, 
lay. 

There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the 
house, 

Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck, 

Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his 
face. 

So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot 
took 

And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in 
her  bed, 

Set  in  her  hand  a lily,  o’er  her  hung 


The  silken  case  with  braided  blazon 
ings, 

And  kiss’d  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying 
to  her 

“ Sister,  farewell  for  ever,”  and  again 

“ Farewell,  sweet  sister,”  parted  all  in 
tears. 

Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and 
the  dead, 

Oar’d  by  the  dumb,  went  upward  with 
the  flood  — 

In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 

The  letter  — all  her  bright  hair  stream- 
ing down  — 

And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 

Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself 
in  white 

All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-fea- 
tured face 

Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as 
dead, 

But  fast  asieep,  and  lay  as  tho’  she 
smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace 
craved 

Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 

The  price  of  half  a realm,  his  costly 

gift, 

Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise 
and  blow, 

With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his 
own, 

The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds : 
for  he  saw 

One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the 
Queen 

Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen 
agreed 

With  such  and  so  unmoved  a majesty 

She  might  have  seem’d  her  statue,  but 
that  he, 

Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss’d 
her  feet 

For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a sidelong 
eye 

The  shadow  of  some  piece  of  pointed 
lace, 

In  the  Queen’s  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 
walls, 

And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly 
heart. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELALNE. 


309 


All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side, 

Vine-clad,  of  Arthur’s  palace  toward 
the  stream, 

They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling 
utter’d,  “ Queen, 

Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I have  my 
joy, 

Take,  what  I had  not  won  except  for 
you, 

These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy, 
making  them 

An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on 
earth, 

Or  necklace  for  a neck  to  which  the 
swan’s 

Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet’s : these 
are  words  : 

Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I 
sin 

In  speaking,  yet  O grant  my  worship 
of  it 

Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.  Such 
sin  in  words 

Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon : but, 
my  Queen, 

I hear  of  rumors  flying  thro’  your 
court. 

Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and 
wife. 

Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 

To  make  up  that  defect : let  rumors 
be : 

When  did  not  rumors  fly  ? these,  as  I 
trust 

That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  noble- 
ness, 

I may  not  well  believe  that  you  be- 
lieve.” 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turn’d 
away,  the  Queen 

Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embpwering 
vine 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast 
them  off, 

Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood 
was  green ; 

Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold 
passive  hand 

Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the 
gems 

There  on  a table  near  her,  and  replied : 


“ It  may  be,  I am  quicker  of  belief 

Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake. 

Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and 
wife. 

This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe’er  of  ill, 

It  can  be  broken  easier.  I for  you 

This  many  a year  have  done  despite 
and  wrong 

To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of 
hearts 

I did  acknowledge  nobler.  What  are 
these  ? 

Diamonds  for  me ! they  had  been 
thrice  their  worth 

Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your 
own. 

To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all 
gifts 

Must  vary  as  the  giver’s.  Not  for 
me  ! 

For  her!  for  your  new  fancy.  Only 
this 

Grant  me,  I pray  you : have  your  joys 
apart. 

I doubt  not  that  however  changed, 
you  keep 

So  much  of  what  is  graceful : and 
myself 

Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of 
courtesy 

In  which  as  Arthur’s  Queen  I move 
and  rule  : 

So  cannot  speak  my  mind.  An  end 
to  this ! 

A strange  one!  yet  I take  it  with 
Amen. 

So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her 
pearls ; 

Deck  her  with  these ; tell  her,  she 
shines  me  down : 

An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the 
Queen’s 

Is  haggard,  or  a necklace  for  a neck 

O as  much  fairer  — as  a faith  once  fair 

Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  — 
hers  not  mine  — 

Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  him- 
self, 

Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work 
my  will  — 

She  shall  not  have  them.” 


310 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Saying  which  she  seized, 

And,  thro’  the  casement  standing  wide 
for  heat, 

Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash’d, 
and  smote  the  stream. 

Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash’d, 
as  it  were, 

Diamond^ to  meet  them,  and  they  past 
away. 

Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half 
disdain 

At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 
ledge, 

( ’lose  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right 
across 

Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past 
the  barge 

Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 

Lay  smiling,  like  a star  in  blackest 
night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not, 
burst  away 

To  weep  and  wail  in  secret ; and  the 
barge, 

On  to  the  palace-doorway  sliding, 
paused. 

There  two  stood  arm’d,  and  kept  the 
door ; to  whom, 

All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over 
tier, 

Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and 
eyes  that  ask’d 

“ What  is  it  1 ” but  that  oarsman’s 
haggard  face, 

As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that 
men 

Shape  to  their  fancy’s  eye  from  broken 
rocks 

On  some  cliff-side,  appall’d  them,  and 
they  said, 

“ He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  — 
and  she, 

Look  how  she  sleeps  — the  Fairy 
Queen,  so  fair! 

Yea,  but  how  pale  ! what  are  they  1 
flesh  and  blood  ? 

Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  Fairy- 
land ? 

For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot 
die, 

But  that  he  passes  into  Fairyland.” 


While  thus  they  babbled  of  the 
King,  the  King 

Came  girt  with  knights : then  turn’d 
the  tongueless  man 

From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye, 
and  rose 

And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the 
doors. 

So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 

And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the 
maid ; 

And  reverently  they  bore  her  into 
hall. 

Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  won- 
der’d at  her, 

And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused 
at  her, 

And  last  the  Queen  herself,  and  pitied 
her  : 

But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her 
hand, 

Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ; 
this  was  all : 


“ Most  noble  lord,  Sir  Lancelot  of 
the  Lake, 

I,  sometime  call’d  the  maid  of  Astolat, 

Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  fare- 
well, 

Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of 
you. 

I loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no 
return, 

And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been 
my  death. 

And  therefore  to  our  Lady  Guinevere, 

And  to  all  other  ladies,  I make  moan. 

Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 

Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too,  Sir  Lan- 
celot, 

As  thou  art  a knight  peerless.” 

Thus  he  read ; 

And  ever  in  the  reading,  lords  and 
dames 

Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who 
read 

To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at 
times, 

So  touch’d  were  they,  half-thinking 
that  her  lips, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


311 


Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved 
again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to 
them  all : 

" My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that 
hear, 

Know  that  for  this  most  gentle 
maiden’s  death 

Right  heavy  am  I ; for  good  she  was 
and  true, 

But  loved  me  with  a love  beyond  all 
love 

In  women,  whomsoever  I have  known. 

Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love 
again ; 

Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in 
youth. 

I swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that 
I gave 

No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a 
love  : 

To  this  I call  my  friends  in  testimony, 

Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who 
himself 

Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt, 
and  use, 

To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 

Against  my  nature : what  I could,  I 
did. 

I left  her  and  I bade  her  no  farewell ; 

Tho’,  had  I dreamt  the  damsel  would 
have  died, 

I might  have  put  my  wits  to  some 
rough  use, 

And  help’d  her  from  herself.” 

Then  said  the  Queen 

(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after 
storm) 

“ Ye  might  at  least  have  done  her  so 
much  grace, 

Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help’d  her 
from  her  death.” 

He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and 
hers  fell, 

He  adding, 

“ Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 

Save  that  I wedded  her,  which  could 
not  be. 

Then  might  she  follow  me  thro’  the 
world,  she  ask’d* 


It  could  not  be.  I told  her  that  her 
love 

Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would 
darken  down 

To  rise  hereafter  in  a stiller  flame 

Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her  — 
then  would  I, 

More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded, 
poor, 

Estate  them  with  large  land  and  ter- 
ritory 

In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 
seas, 

To  keep  them  in  all  joyance : more 
than  this 

I could  not;  this  she  would  not,  and 
she  died.” 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer’d,  “ O 
my  knight, 

It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my 
knight, 

And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table 
Round, 

To  see  that  she  be  buried  worship- 
fully.” 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in 
all  the  realm 

Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly 
went 

The  marshall’d  Order  of  their  Table 
Round, 

And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont, 
to  see, 

The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  un- 
known, 

Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obse- 
quies, 

And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a 
queen. 

And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her 
comely  head 

Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten 
kings, 

Then  Arthur  spake  among  them, 
“ Let  her  tomb 

Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon, 

And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  hei 
feet 

Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 


312 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous 
voyage 

For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon’d  on  her 
tomb 

In  letters  gold  and  azure ! ” which  was 
wrought 

Thereafter;  but  when  now  the  lords 
and  dames 

And  people,  from  the  high  door 
streaming,  brake 

Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the 
Queen, 

Who  mark’d  Sir  Lancelot  where  he 
moved  apart, 

Drew  near,  and  sigh’d  in  passing, 
“Lancelot, 

Forgive  me;  mine  was  jealousy  in 
love.” 

He  answer’d  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

“ That  is  love’s  curse ; pass  on,  my 
Queen,  forgiven.” 

But  Arthur,  who  beheld  his  cloudy 
brows, 

Approach’d  him,  and  with  full  affec- 
tion said, 


“Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in 
whom  I have 

Most  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I 
know 

What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my 
side, 

And  many  a time  have  watch’d  thee 
at  the  tilt 

Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long  prac- 
tised knight, 

And  let  the  younger  and  unskill’d 
go  by 

To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his 
name, 

And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a 
man 

Made  to  be  loved ; but  now  I would 
to  God, 

Seeing  the  homeless  trouble  in  thine 
eyes, 

Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden, 
shaped,  it  seems, 

By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her 
face, 


If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the 
dead, 

Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair. 

Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a 
lonely  man 

Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 

Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and 
fame, 

My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of 
the  Lake.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  “ Fair  she 
was,  my  King, 

Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights 
to  be. 

To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an 
eye, 

To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 
heart  — 

Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 

Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not 
be  bound.” 

“Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freest,” 
said  the  King. 

“ Let  love  be  free ; free  love  is  for 
the  best : 

And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of 
death, 

What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a 
love 

Clothed  in  so  pure  a loveliness  ? yet 
thee 

She  fail’d  to  bind,  tho’  bein£,  as  I 
think, 

Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I 
know.” 


And  Lancelot  answer’d  nothing,  but 
he  went, 

And  at  the  inrunning  of  a little  brook 

Sat  by  the  river  in  a cove,  and 
watch’d 

The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his 
eyes 

And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her 
moving  down, 

Far-off,  a blot  upon  the  stream,  and 
said 

Low  in  himself,  “ Ah  simple  heart  and 
sweet, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


313 


Ye  loved  me.  damsel,  surely  with  a 
love 

Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen’s.  Pray 
for  thy  soul  ? 

Ay,  that  will  I.  Farewell  too  — now 
at  last  — 

Farewell,  fair  lily.  ‘Jealousy  in 
love  ? ’ 

Not  rather  dead  love’s  harsh  heir, 
jealous  pride  ? 

Queen,  if  I grant  the  jealousy  as  of 
love, 

May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name 
and  fame 

Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a love  that 
wanes  ? 

Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name 
to  me  ? 

Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming 
a reproach, 

Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 

Caught  from  his  mother’s  arms  — 
the  wondrous  one 

Who  passes  thro’  the  vision  of  the 
night  — 

She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious 
hymns 

Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and 
morn 

She  kiss’d  me  saying,  ‘ Thou  art  fair, 
my  child, 

As  a king’s  son,’  and  often  in  her  arms 

She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky 
mere. 

Would  she  had  drown’d  me  in  it, 
where’er  it  be ! 

For,  what  am  I ? what  profits  me  my 
name 

Of  greatest  knight  ? I fought  for  it, 
and  have  it : 

Pleasure  to  have  it,  none ; to  lose  it, 
pain ; 

Now  grown  a part  of  me : but  what 
use  in  it  1 

To  make  men  worse  by  making  my 
sin  known  ? 

Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming 
great  ? 

Alas  for  Arthur’s  greatest  knight,  a 
man 

Not  after  Arthur’s  heart ! I needs 
must  break 


These  bonds  that  so  defame  me : not 
without 

She  wills  it : would  I,  if  she  will’d  it  ? 
nay, 

Who  knows  1 but  if  I would  not,  then 
may  God, 

I pray  him,  send  a sudden  Angel  down 

To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me 
far, 

And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten 
mere, 

Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the 
hills.” 

So  groan’d  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorse- 
ful pain, 

Not  knowing  he  should  die  a holy 
man. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

From  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of 
prowess  done 

In  tournament  or  tilt,  Sir  Percivale, 

Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood 
call’d  The  Pure, 

Had  pass’d  into  the  silent  life  of 
prayer, 

Praise,  fast,  and  alms ; and  leaving 
for  the  cowl 

The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 

From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long 
after,  died. 

And  one,  a fellow-monk  among 
the  rest, 

Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond 
the  rest, 

And  honor’d  him,  and  wrought  into 
his  heart 

A way  by  love  that  waken’d  love 
within, 

To  answer  that  which  came : and  as 
they  sat 

Beneath  a world-old  yew-tree,  darken- 
ing half 

The  cloisters,  on  a gustful  April  morn 

That  puff’d  the  swaying  branches  into 
smoke 

Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when 
he  died. 


314 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


The  monk  Ambrosius  question’d 
Percivale : 

“ O brother,  I have  seen  this  yew- 
tree  smoke, 

Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a hun- 
dred years  : 

For  never  have  I known  the  world 
without, 

Nor  ever  stray’d  beyond  the  pale  : but 
thee, 

When  first  thou  earnest  — such  a 
courtesy 

Spake  thro’  the  limbs  and  in  the 
voice  — 

I knew 

For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur’s 
hall ; 

For  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to 
coins, 

Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one 
of  you 

Stamp’d  with  the  image  of  the  King ; 
and  now 

Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the 
Table  Round, 

My  brother  1 was  it  earthly  passion 
crost  ? ” 

“ Nay,”  said  the  knight ; “ for  no 
such  passion  mine 

But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy 
Grail 

Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rival- 
ries, 

And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and 
sparkle  out 

Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women 
watch 

Who  wins,  who  falls ; and  waste  the 
spiritual  strength 

Within  us,  better  offer’d  up  to 
Heaven.” 

To  whom  the  monk : “ The  Holy 
Grail ! — I trust 

We  are  green  in  Heaven’s  eyes;  but 
here  too  much 

We  moulder  — as  to  things  without  I 
mean  — 

Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a guest 
of  ours. 


Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory, 

But  spake  with  such  a sadness  and  so 
low 

We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said. 
What  is  it  1 

The  phantom  of  a cup  that  comes 
and  goes  ? ” 

“ Nay,  monk  ! what  phantom  ? ” 
answer’d  Percivale. 

“ The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which 
our  Lord 

Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his 
own. 

This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aro- 
mat  — 

After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the 
dead 

W ent  wandering  o’er  Moriah  — the 
good  saint 

Arimathaean  Joseph,  journeying 
brought 

To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter 
thorn 

Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of 
our  Lord. 

And  there  awhile  it  bode ; and  if  a 
man 

Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal’d 
at  once, 

By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.  But  then  the 
times 

Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 

Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and 
disappear’d.” 

To  whom  the  monk:  “From  our 
old  books  I know 

That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury, 

And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arvi- 
ragus, 

Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 
build ; 

And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from 
the  marsh 

A little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 

For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours, 
but  seem 

Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I have  read. 

But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to- 
day ? ” 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL . 


315 


“A  woman,”  answer’d  Percivale, 
“ a nun, 

And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from 
me 

Than  sister;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 

With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the 
stone, 

A holy  maid ; tho’  never  maiden 
glow’d, 

But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maiden- 
hood, 

With  sucli  a fervent  flame  of  human 
love, 

Which  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced 
and  shot 

Only  to  holy  things ; to  prayer  and 
praise 

She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms. 
And  yet, 

Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the 
Court, 

Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table 
Round, 

And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulter- 
ous race, 

Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 

Beat,  and  she  pray’d  and  fasted  all 
the  more. 

“ And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins, 
or  what 

Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for 
sin, 

A man  wellnigh  a hundred  winters  old, 

Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 

A legend  handed  down  thro’  five  or  six. 

And  each  of  these  a hundred  winters 
old, 

From  our  Lord’s  time.  And  when 
King  Arthur  made 

His  Table  Round,  and  all  men’s  hearts 
became 

Clean  for  a season,  surely  he  had 
thought 

That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come 
again ; 

But  sin  broke  out.  Ah,  Christ,  that  it 
would  come, 

And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  w icked- 
ness ! 

‘ 0 Father ! ’ ask’d  the  maiden,  ‘ might 
it  come 


To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  1 ’ ‘ Nay,’ 
said  he, 

‘ I know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as 
snow/ 

And  so  she  pray’d  and  fasted,  till  the 
sun 

Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro’  her, 
and  I thought 

She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when 
I saw  her. 

“For  on  a day  she  sent  to  speak 
with  me. 

And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold 
her  eyes 

Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beauti- 
ful, 

Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  won- 
derful, 

Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 

And  ‘ O my  brother  Percivale,’  she 
said, 

‘ Sw  eet  brother,  I have  seen  the  Holy 
Grail : 

For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I heard 
a sound 

As  of  a silver  horn  from  o’er  the  hills 

Blown,  and  I thought,  “ It  is  not 
Arthur’s  use 

To  hunt  by  moonlight ; ” and  the  slen- 
der sound 

As  from  a distance  beyond  distance 
grew 

Coming  upon  me  — O never  harp  nor 
horn, 

Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or 
touch  with  hand, 

Was  like  that  music  as  it  came ; and 
then 

Stream’d  thro’  my  cell  a cold  and 
silver  beam, 

And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the 
Holy  Grail, 

Rose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if 
alive, 

Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were 
dyed 

With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall ; 

And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the 
Grail 

Past,  and  the  beam  decay’d,  and  from 
the  walls 


316 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the 
night. 

So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 

Among  us,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and 
pray, 

And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast 
and  pray, 

That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be 
seen 

By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world 
be  heal’d.’ 

“ Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I spake 
of  this 

To  all  men ; and  myself  fasted  and 
pray’d 

Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a 
week 

Fasted  and  pray’d  even  to  the  utter- 
most, 

Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would 
be. 

“ And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever 
moved 

Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 

‘ God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art 
beautiful,’ 

Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb’d  him 
knight ; and  none, 

In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a 
knight 

Till  Galahad ; and  this  Galahad,  when 
he  heard 

My  sister’s  vision,  fill’d  me  with  amaze; 

His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 
seem’d 

Hers,  and  himself  her  brother  more 
than  I. 

“ Sister  or  brother  none  had  he ; but 
some 

Call’d  him  a son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 
said 

Begotten  by  enchantment — chatterers 
they, 

Life  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and 
down, 

That  gape  for  flies  — we  know  not 
whence  they  come ; 

For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly 
lewd  1 


“ But  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden, 
shore  away 

Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that 
wealth  of  hair 

Which  made  a silken  mat-work  for 
her  feet ; 

And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and 
long 

A strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with 
silver  thread 

And  crimson  in  the  belt  a strange 
device, 

A crimson  grail  within  a silver  beam ; 

And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and 
bound  it  on  him, 

Saying,  ‘ My  knight,  my  love,  my 
knight  of  heaven, 

O thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one 
with  mine, 

I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind 
my  belt. 

Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I 
have  seen, 

And  break  thro’  all,  till  one  will  crown 
thee  king 

Far  in  the  spiritual  city:’  and  as  she 
spake 

She  sent  her  deathless  passion  in  her 
eyes 

Thro’  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and 
laid  her  mind 

On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

“ Then  came  a year  of  miracle : O 
brother, 

In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a vacant 
chair, 

Fashion’d  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away, 

And  carven  with  strange  figures ; and 
in  and  out 

The  figures,  like  a serpent,  ran  a scroll 

Of  letters  in  a tongue  no  man  could 
read. 

And  Merlin  call’d  it  ‘ The  Siege  peril- 
ous.’ 

Perilous  for  good  and  ill;  ‘for  there,’ 
he  said, 

‘ No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 
himself : ’ 

And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 

In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ; but 
he, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


317 


Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin’s 
doom, 

Cried,  ‘ If  I lose  myself,  I save  my- 
self !’ 

“ Then  on  a summer  night  it  came 
to  pass, 

While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the 
hall, 

That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Mer- 
lin’s chair. 

“ And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat, 
we  heard 

A cracking  and  a riving  of  the  roofs, 

And  rending,  and  a blast,  and  over- 
head 

Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a cry. 

And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the 
hall 

A beam  of  light  seven  times  more 
clear  than  day : 

And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the 
Holy  Grail 

All  over  cover’d  with  a luminous  cloud, 

And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and 
it  past. 

But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow’s 
face 

As  in  a glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose, 

And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb 
men 

Stood,  till  I found  a voice  and  sware 
a vow. 

“I  sware  a vow  before  them  all, 
that  I, 

Because  I had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would 
ride 

A twelvemonth  and  a day  in  quest  of 
it, 

Until  I found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 

My  sister  saw  it ; and  Galahad  sware 
the  vow, 

And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot’s 
cousin,  sware, 

And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 
the  knights, 

And  Gawain  sware,  and  louder  than 
the  rest.” 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius, 
asking  him, 


“ What  said  the  King  ? Did  Arthur 
take  the  vow  1 ” 


“ Kay,  for  my  lord,”  said  Percivale, 
“ the  King, 

Was  not  in  hall : for  early  that  same 
day, 

Scaped  thro’  a cavern  from  a bandit 
hold, 

An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the 
hall 

Crying  on  help : for  all  her  shining 
hair 

Was  smear’d  with  earth,  and  either 
milky  arm 

Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and 
all  she  wore 

Torn  as  a sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is 
torn 

In  tempest:  so  the  King  arose  and 
went 

To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those 
wild  bees 

That  made  such  honey  in  his  realm. 
Howbeit 

Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw, 

Returning  o’er  the  plain  that  then 
began 

To  darken  under  Camelot ; whence  the 
King 

Look’d  up,  calling  aloud,  ‘ Lo,  there  ! 
the  roofs 

Of  our  great  hall  are  roll’d  in  thunder- 
smoke  ! 

Pray  Heaven,  .they  be  not  smitten  by 
the  bolt.’ 

For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of 
ours, 

As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his 
knights 

Feasted,  and  as  the  stateliest  under 
heaven. 


“0  brother,  had  you  known  our 
mighty  hall, 

Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long 
ago! 

For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 

And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by 
roof, 

Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire, 


318 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rush- 
ing brook, 

Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin 
built. 

And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set 
betwixt 

With  many  a mystic  symbol,  gird  the 
hall : 

And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying 
men, 

And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying 
beasts, 

And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect 
men, 

And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  grow- 
ing wings, 

And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 

Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a 
crown, 

And  peak’d  wings  pointed  to  the 
Northern  Star. 

And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and 
the  crown 

And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 
and  flame 

At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far 
fields, 

Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen 
hordes, 

Behold  it,  crying,  ‘We  have  still  a 
King.’ 

" And,  brother,  had  you  known  our 
hall  within, 

Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all 
the  lands ! 

Where  twelve  great  windows  blazon 
Arthur’s  wars, 

And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the 
board 

Streams  thro’  the  twelve  great  battles 
of  our  King. 

Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern 
end, 

Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of 
mount  and  mere, 

Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand  Excali- 
bur. 

And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter 
to  it, 

And  blank  : and  who  shall  blazon  it  1 
when  and  how  1 — 


0 there,  perchance,  when  al’rour  wars 
are  done, 

The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast 
away. 

“ So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode 
the  King, 

In  horror  lest  the  work  by  Merlin 
wrought, 

Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  van- 
ish, wrapt 

In  unremorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 

And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I glanced,  and 
saw 

The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all : 

And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the 
hold,  their  arms 

Hack’d,  and  their  foreheads  grimed 
with  smoke,  and  sear’d, 

Follow’d,  and  in  among  bright  faces, 
ours, 

Full  of  the  vision,  prest : and  then  the 
King 

Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  ‘Perci- 
vale,’ 

(Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult  — 
some 

Vowing,  and  some  protesting),  ‘what 
is  this  ? ’ 

“ 0 brother,  when  I told  him  what 
had  chanced, 

My  sister’s  vision,  and  the  rest,  his 
face 

Darken’d,  as  I have  seen  it  more  than 
once, 

When  some  brave  deed  seem’d  to  be 
done  in  vain, 

Darken ; and  ‘ Woe  is  me,  my  knights,’ 
he  cried, 

‘ Had  I been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn 
the  vow.’ 

Bold  was  mine  answer,  ‘ Had  thyself 
been  here, 

My  King,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn.’ 

‘ Yea,  yea,’  said  he, 

‘Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen 
the  Grail  ? ’ 

“ * Nay,  lord,  I heard  the  sound,  I 
saw  the  light, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


319 


But  since  I did  not  see  the  Holy 
Thing, 

I sware  a vow  to  follow  it  till  I saw.’ 

“ Then  when  he  ask’d  us,  knight  by 
knight,  if  any 

Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as 
one : 

‘Nay,  lord,  and  therefore  have  we 
sworn  our  vows.’ 

“ ‘ Lo  now,’  said  Arthur,  ‘ have  ye 
seen  a cloud  ? 

What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to 
see  1 ’ 

“ Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and 
in  a voice 

Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur, 
call’d^, 

‘But  I,  Sir  Arthur,  saw  the  Holy 
Grail, 

I saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a cry  — 

“ O Galahad,  and  O Galahad,  follow 
me.”  ’ 

“ * Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,’  said  the 
King,  ‘ for  such 

As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for 
these. 

Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a 
sign  — 

Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than 
she  — 

A sign  to  maim  this  Order  which  I 
made. 

But  ye,  that  follow  but  the  leader’s 
bell’ 

(Brother,  the  King  was  hard  upon  his 
knights) 

‘Taliessinis  our  fullest  throat  of  song, 

And  one  hath  sung  and  all  the  dumb 
will  sing. 

Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  over- 
borne 

Five  knights  at  once,  and  every 
younger  knight, 

Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 

Till  overborne  by  one,  he  learns  — and 

ye, 

What  are  ye  ? Galahads  ? — no,  nor 
Percivales  ’ 


(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 
me  close 

After  Sir  Galahad);  ‘nay,’  said  he, 
‘ but  men 

With  strength  and  will  to  right  the 
wrong’d,  of  power 

To  lay  the  sudden  heads  of  violence 
flat, 

Knights  that  in  twelve  great  battles 
splash’d  and  dyed 

The  strong  White  Horse  in  his  own 
heathen  blood  — 

But  one  hath  seen,  an$  all  the  blind 
will  see. 

Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,  being 
made : 

Yet  — for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my 
realm 

Pass  thro’  this  hall  — how  often,  0 my 
knights, 

Your  places  being  vacant  at  my 
side, 

This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come 
and  go 

Unchallenged,  while  ye  follow  wan- 
dering fires 

Lost  in  the  quagmire ! Many  of  you, 
yea  mpst, 

Return  no  more  : ye  think  I show  my- 
self 

Too  dark  a prophet : come  now,  let 
us  meet 

The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one 
full  field 

Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more 
the  King, 

Before  ye  leave  him  for  this  Quest, 
may  count 

The  yet-unbroken  strength  of  all  his 
knights, 

Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he 
made.’ 

“ So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from 
under  ground, 

All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur 
closed 

And  clash’d  in  such  a tourney  and  so 
full, 

So  many  lances  broken  — never  yet 

Had  Camelot  seen  the  like,  since 
Arthur  came; 


320 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


And  I myself  and  Galahad,  for  a 
strength 

Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 

So  many  knights  that  all  the  people 
cried, 

And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their 
heat, 

Shouting,  ‘ Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Per- 
civale ! ’ 

“ But  when  the  next  day  brake 
from  under  ground  — 

9 brother,  had  you  known  our  Came- 
lot, 

Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so 
old 

The  King  himself  had  fears  that  it 
would  fall, 

So  strange,  and  rich,  and  dim ; for 
where  the  roofs 

Totter’d  toward  each  other  in  the 

sky, 

Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of 
those 

Who  watch’d  us  pass  ; and  lower,  and 
where  the  long 

Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  weigh’d  the 
necks 

Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls. 

Thicker  than  drops  from  thunder, 
showers  of  flowers 

Fell  as  we  past;  and  men  and  boys 
astride 

On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griffin,  swan, 

At  all  the  corners,  named  us  each  by 
name, 

Calling  ‘ God  speed  ! ’ but  in  the  ways 
below 

The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich 
and  poor 

Wept,  and  the  King  himself  could 
hardly  speak 

For  grief,  and  all  in  middle  street  the 
Queen, 

Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail’d  and 
shriek’d  aloud, 

‘ This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our 
sins.’ 

So  to  the  Gate  of  the  three  Queens  we 
came, 

Where  Arthur’s  wars  are  render’d 
mystically, 


And  thence  departed  every  one  his 
way. 

“ And  I was  lifted  up  in  heart,  and 
thought 

Of  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the 
lists, 

How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  flown 
the  knights, 

So  many  and  famous  names ; and 
never  yet 

Had  heaven  appear’d  so  blue,  nor 
earth  so  green, 

For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  1 
knew 

That  I should  light  upon  the  Holy 
Grail. 


“ Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of 
our  King, 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires, 

Came  like  a driving  gloom  across  my 
mind. 

Then  every  evil  word  I had  spoken 
once, 

And  every  evil  thought  I had  thought 
of  old, 

And  every  evil  deed  I ever  did, 

Awoke  and  cried,  ‘ This  Quest  is  not 
for  thee.’ 

And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I found  my- 
self 

Alone,  and  in  a land  of  sand  and 
thorns, 

And  I was  thirsty  even  unto  death ; 

And  I,  too,  cried,  ‘ This  Quest  is  not 
for  thee.’ 

“ And  on  I rode,  and  when  I thought 
my  thirst 

Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and 
then  a brook, 

With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisp- 
ing white 

Play’d  ever  back  upon  the  sloping 
wave, 

And  took  both  ear  and  eye ; and  o’er 
the  brook 

Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the 
brook 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


321 


Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns.  ‘ I will  rest 
here/ 

I said,  ‘ I am  not  worthy  of  the  Quest ; ’ 

But  even  while  I drank  the  brook,  and 
ate 

The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at 
once 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I was  left  alone, 

And  thirsting,  in  a land  of  sand  and 
thorns. 

“And  then  behold  a woman  at  a 
door 

Spinning ; and  fair  the  house  whereby 
she  sat, 

And  kind  the  woman’s  eyes  and  inno- 
cent, 

And  all  her  bearing  gracious ; and  she 
rose 

Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  wj^o 
should  say, 

‘ Best  here  ; ’ but  when  I touch’d  her, 
lo ! she,  too, 

Fell  into  dust  and  nothing,  and  the 
house 

Became  no  better  than  a broken  shed. 

And  in  it  a dead  babe ; and  also  this 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I was  left  alone. 

“And  on  I rode,  and  greater  was 
my  thirst. 

Then  flash’d  a yellow  gleam  across 
the  world, 

And  where  it  smote  the  plowshare  in 
the  field, 

The  plowman  left  his  plowing,  and 
fell  down 

Before  it ; where  it  glitter’d  on  her 
pail, 

The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and 
fell  down 

Before  it,  and  I knew  not  why,  but 
thought 

‘ The  sun  is  rising/  tho’  the  sun  had 
risen. 

Then  was  I ware  of  one  that  on  me 
moved 

In  golden  armor  with  a crown  of  gold 

About  a casque  all  jewels ; and  his 
horse 

In  golden  armor  jewell’d  everywhere: 


And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing 
me  blind ; 

And  seem’d  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the 
world, 

Being  so  huge.  But  when  I thought 
he  meant 

To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo ! he, 
too, 

Open’d  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he 
came, 

And  up  I went  and  touch’d  him,  and 
he,  too, 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I was  left  alone 

And  wearying  in  a land  of  sand  and 
thorns. 

“ And  I rode  on  and  found  a mighty 
hill, 

And  on  the  top,  a city  wall’d : the 
spires 

Prick’d  with  incredible  pinnacles  into 
heaven. 

And  by  the  gateway  stirf’d  a crowd ; 
and  these 

Cried  to  me  climbing,  ‘ Welcome,  Per- 
civale ! 

Thou  mightiest  and  thou  purest 
among  men ! ’ 

And  glad  was  I and  clomb,  but  found 
at  top 

No  man,  nor  any  voice.  And  thence 
I past 

Far  thro’  a ruinous  city,  and  I saw 

That  man  had  once  dwelt  there ; but 
there  I found 

Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 

‘ Where  is  that  goodly  company,’  said  I, 

‘That  so  cried  out  upon  me  ? ’ and  he 
had 

Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet 
gasp’d, 

‘ Whence  and  what  art  thou  1 ’ and 
even  as  he  spoke 

Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear’d,  and  I 

Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried 
in  grief, 

‘ Lo,  if  I find  the  Holy  Grail  itself 

And  touch  it,  it  will  crumble  into 
dust.’ 

“And  thence  I dropt  into  a lowly 
vale. 


322 


THE  HOLY  GRATL. 


Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where 
the  vale 

Was  lowest,  found  a chapel,  and 
thereby 

A holy  hermit  in  a hermitage, 

To  whom  I told  my  phantoms,  and  he 
said : 

“ ‘ O son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility, 
The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all ; 
For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 
Himself 

Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
“ Take  thou  my  robe,”  she  said,  “ for 
all  is  thine,” 

And  all  her  form  shone  forth  with 
sudden  light 

So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and 
she 

Follow’d  Him  down,  and  like  a flying 
star 

Led  on  the  gray-hair’d  wisdom  of  the 
east ; ' 

But  her  thou  hast  not  known : for 
what  is  this 

Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and 
thy  sins'? 

Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save 
thyself 

As  Galahad.’  When  the  hermit  made 
an  end, 

In  silver  armor  suddenly  Galahad 
shone 

Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter’d,  and  we  knelt 
in  prayer. 

And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burn- 
ing thirst, 

And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I saw 
The  holy  elements  alone ; but  he, 

‘ Saw  ye  no  more  ? I,  Galahad,  saw 
the  Grail, 

The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the 
shrine : 

I saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a child 
That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and 
went ; 

And  hither  am  I come  ; and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first 
to  see, 

This  Holy  Thing,  fail’d  from  my  side, 
nor  come 


Cover’d,  but  moving  with  me  night 
and  day, 

Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 

Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  black- 
en’d marsh 

Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain 
top 

Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere 
below 

Blood-red.  And  in  the  strength  of 
this  I rode, 

Shattering  all  evil  customs  every- 
where, 

And  past  thro’  Pagan  realms,  and 
made  them  mine, 

And  clash’d  with  Pagan  hordes,  and 
bore  them  down, 

And  broke  thro’  all,  and  in  the  strength 
of  this 

Come  victor.  But  my  time  is  hard  at 
•»  hand, 

And  hence  I go ; and  one  will  crown 
me  king 

Far  in  the  spiritual  city;  and  come 
thou,  too, 

For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I 
go.’ 

“ While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye, 
dwelling  on  mine, 

Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I 
grew 

One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  be- 
lieved. 

Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane, 
we  went. 

‘‘There  rose  a hill  that  none  but 
man  could  climb, 

Scarr’d  with  a hundred  wintry  water- 
courses — 

Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain’d 
it,  storm 

Round  us  and  death;  for  every  mo- 
ment glanced 

His  silver  arms  and  gloom’d  : so  quick 
and  thick 

The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left 
and  right 

Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about 
us,  dead, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


323 


Yea,  rotten  with  a hundred  years  of 
death, 

Sprang  into  fire : and  at  the  base  we 
found 

On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 

A great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil 
smell, 

Part  black,  part  whiten’d  with  the 
bones  of  men, 

Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient 
king 

Had  built  a way,  where,  link’d  with 
many  a bridge, 

A thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great 
Sea. 

And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge 
by  bridge, 

And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he 
crost 

Sprang  into  fire  and  vanish’d,  tho’  I 
yearn’d 

To  follow ; and  thrice  above  him  all 
the  heavens 

Open’d  and  blazed  with  thunder  such 
as  seem’d 

Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God : and 
first 

At  once  I saw  him  far  on  the  great 
Sea, 

In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear  ; 

And  o’er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel 
hung 

Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a luminous 
cloud. 

And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the 
boat, 

If  boat  it  were  — I saw  not  whence  it 
came. 

And  when  the  heavens  open’d  and 
blazed  again 

Roaring,  I saw  him  like  a silver  star  — 

And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the 
boat 

Become  a living  creature  clad  with 
wings  ? 

And  o’er  his  head  the  Holy  Vessel 
hung 

Redder  than  any  rose,  a joy  to  me, 

For  now  I knew  the  veil  had  been 
withdrawn. 

Then  in  a moment  when  they  blazed 
again 


Opening,  I saw  the  least  of  little  stars 

Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight 
beyond  the  star 

I saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her 
spires 

And  gateways  in  a glory  like  one 
pearl  — 

No  larger,  tho’  the  goal  of  all  the 
saints  — 

Strike  from  the  sea ; and  from  the 
star  there  shot 

A rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and 
there 

Dwelt,  and  I know  it  was  the  Holy 
Grail, 

Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again 
shall  see. 

Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drown- 
ing the  deep. 

And  how  my  feet  recrost  the  death- 
ful ridge 

No  memory  in  me  lives ; but  that  I 
touch’d 

The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I know; 
and  thence 

Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy 
man, 

Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more, 
return’d 

To  whence  I came,  the  gate  of  Arthur’s 
wars.” 

“0  brother,”  ask’d  Ambrosius, — ■ 
“ for  in  sooth 

These  ancient  books  — and  they  would 
win  thee  — teem, 

Only  I find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 

With  miracles  and  marvels  like  to 
these, 

Not  all  unlike ; which  oftentime  I read, 

Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with 
ease, 

Till  my  head  swims  ; and  then  go  forth 
and  pass 

Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so 
close, 

And  almost  plaster’d  like  a martin’s 
nest 

To  these  old  walls  — and  mingle  with 
our  folk ; 

And  knowing  every  honest  face  of 
theirs 


324 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


As  well  as  ever  shepherd  knew  his 
sheep, 

And  every  homely  secret  in  their 
hearts, 

Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old 
wives, 

And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings, 
lyings-in, 

And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the 
place, 

That  have  no  meaning  half  a league 
away : 

Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when 
they  rise, 

Chafferings  and  chatterings  at  the 
market-cross, 

Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 
of  mine, 

Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their 
eggs  — 

0 brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad, 

Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in 
your  quest, 

No  man,  no  woman  ? ” 

Then  Sir  Percivale : 

“All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a 
vow, 

And  women  were  as  phantoms.  O, 
my  brother, 

Why  wilt  thou  shame  me  to  confess 
to  thee 

How  far  I falter’d  from  my  quest  and 
vow  ? 

For  after  I had  lain  so  many  nights, 

A bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and 
snake, 

In  grass  and  burdock,  I was  changed 
to  wan 

And  meagre,  and  the  vision  had  not 
come ; 

And  then  I chanced  upon  a goodly 
town 

With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle 
of  it ; 

Thither  I made,  and  there  was  I dis- 
arm’d 

By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower : 

But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  be- 
hold, 

The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the 
one, 


Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had 
ever 

Made  my  heart  leap;  for  when  I 
moved  of  old 

A slender  page  about  her  father’s  hall, 
And  she  a slender  maiden,  all  my 
heart 

Went  after  her  with  longing:  yet  we 
twain 

Had  never  kiss’d  a kiss,  or  vow’d  a 
vow. 

And  now  I came  upon  her  once  again. 
And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was 
dead, 

And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state 
were  hers. 

And  while  I tarried,  every  day  she 
set 

A banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me;  for  all  her  longing  and  her 
will 

Was  toward  me  as  of  old;  till  one 
fair  morn, 

I walking  to  and  fro  beside  a stream 
That  flash’d  across  her  orchard  under- 
neath 

Her  castle-walls,  she  stole  upon  my 
walk, 

And  calling  me  the  greatest  of  all 
knights, 

Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss’d  me  the 
first  time, 

And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth 
to  me. 

Then  I remember’d  Arthur’s  warning 
word, 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wan- 
dering fires, 

And  the  Quest  faded  in  my  heart. 
Anon, 

The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to 
me, 

With  supplication  both  of  knees  and 
tongue : 

‘We  have  heard  of  thee:  thou  art 
our  greatest  knight, 

Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe : 
Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us, 
And  thou  shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our 
land.’ 

O me,  my  brother ! but  one  night  my 
vow 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


325 


Burnt  me  within,  so  that  I rose  and 
fled, 

But  wail’d  and  wept,  and  hated  mine 
own  self, 

And  ev’n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but 
her ; 

Then  after  I was  join’d  with  Galahad 

Cared  not  for  her,  nor  anything  upon 
earth.” 

Then  said  the  monk,  “Poor  men, 
when  yule  is  cold, 

Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 

And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 

Ever  so  little ; yea,  and  blest  be 
Heaven 

That  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor 
house  of  ours 

Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard, 
to  warm 

My  cold  heart  with  a friend  : but  O 
the  pity 

To  find  thine  own  first  love  once 
more — -to  hold, 

Hold  her  a wealthy  bride  within  thine 
arms, 

Or  all  but  hold,  and  then  — cast  her 
aside, 

Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a 
weed. 

For  we  that  want  the  warmth  of 
double  life, 

We  that  are  plagued  with  dreams  of 
something  sweet 

Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a life  so 
rich, — 

Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I speak  too  earthly- 
wise, 

Seeing  I never  stray’d  beyond  the  cell, 

But  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his 
earth, 

With  earth  about  him  everywhere, 
despite 

All  fast  and  penance.  Saw  ye  none 
beside, 

None  of  your  knights  ? ” 

“Yea  so,”  said  Percivale: 

“One  night  my  pathway  swerving 
east,  I saw 

The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir 
Bors 


All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon : 

And  toward  him  spurr’d,  and  hail’d 
him,  and  he  me, 

And  each  made  joy  of  either;  then 
he  ask’d, 

‘ Where  is  he  ? hast  thou  seen  him  — 
Lancelot  ? — Once,’ 

Said  good  Sir  Bors,  ‘ he  dash’d  across 
me  — mad, 

And  maddening  what  he  rode : and 
when  I cried, 

“ Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a quest 

So  holy,”  Lancelot  shouted,  “ Stay 
me  not ! 

I have  been  the  sluggard,  and  I ride 
apace, 

For  now  there  is  a lion  in  the  way.” 

So  vanish’d.’ 


“ Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 

Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lan- 
celot, 

Because  his  former  madness,  once  the 
talk 

And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  re- 
turn’d ; 

For  Lancelot’s  kith  and  kin  so  wor- 
ship him 

That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them ; to  Bors 

Beyond  the  rest : he  well  had  been 
content 

Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might 
have  seen, 

The  Holy  Cup  of  healing;  and,  indeed, 

Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and 
love, 

Small  heart  was  his  after  the  Holy 
Quest : 

If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well : 
if  not, 

The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands 
of  Heaven. 

“And  then,  with  small  adventure 
met,  Sir  Bors 

Rode  to  the  loneliest  tfact  of  all  the 
realm, 

And  found  a people  there  among 
their  crags, 

Our  race  and  blood,  a remnant  that 
were  left 


326 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Paynim  amid  their  circles,  and  the 
stones 

They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven : 
' and  their  wise  men 

Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which 
can  trace 

The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and 
scoff’d  at  him 

And  this  high  Quest  as  at  a simple 
thing : 

Told  him  he  follow’d  — almost  Ar- 
thur’s words  — 

A mocking  fire : ‘ what  other  fire  than 
he, 

Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the 
blossom  blows, 

And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is 
warm’d  'i  ’ 

And  when  his  answer  chafed  them, 
the  rough  crowd, 

Hearing  he  had  a difference  with 
their  priests, 

Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged 
him  into  a cell 

Of  great  piled  stones ; and  lying 
bounden  there 

In  darkness  thro’  innumerable 
hours 

He  heard  the  hollow-ringing  heavens 
sweep 

Over  him  till  by  miracle  — what 
else  1 — 

Heavy  as  it  was,  a great  stone  slipt 
and  fell, 

Such  as  no  wind  could  move : and 
thro’  the  gap 

Glimmer’d  the  streaming  scud : then 
came  a night 

Still  as  the  day  was  loud ; and  thro’ 
the  gap 

The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur’s 
Table  Round  — 

For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because 
they  roll 

Thro’  such  a round  in  heaven,  we 
named  the  stars, 

Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our 
King  — 

And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar 
friends, 

In  on  him  shone : ‘ And  then  to  me, 
to  me,’ 


Said  good  Sir  Bors,  ‘ beyond  all  hopes 
of  mine, 

Who  scarce  had  pray’d  or  ask’d  it  for 
myself  — 

Across  the  seven  clear  stars  — 0 
grace  to  me  — 

In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a hand 

Before  a burning  taper,  the  sweet 
Grail 

Glided  and  past, and  close  upon  it  peal’d 

A sharp  quick  thunder.’  Afterwards, 
a maid, 

Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her 
kin 

In  secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him 
go.” 

To  whom  the  monk:  “And  I re- 
member now 

That  pelican  on  the  casque  : Sir  Bors 
it  was 

Who  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our 
board ; 

And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace 
was  he : 

A square-set  man  and  honest ; and  his 
eyes, 

An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth 
within, 

Smiled  with  his  lips  — a smile  beneath 
a cloud, 

But  heaven  had  meant  it  for  a sunny 
one : 

Ay,  ay,  Sir  Bors,  who  else  But 
when  ye  reach’d 

The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights 
return’d, 

Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur’s  proph- 
ecy, 

Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and 
what  the  King  1 ” 

Then  answer’d  Percivale-*  “And 
that  can  I, 

Brother,  and  truly;  since  the  living 
words 

Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our 
King 

Pass  not  from  door  to  door  and  out 
again, 

But  sit  within  the  house.  O,  when  we 
reach’d 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL . 


327 


The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as 
they  trode 

On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 

Crack’d  basilisks,  and  splinter’d  cock- 
atrices, 

And  shatter’d  talbots,  which  had  left 
the  stones 

Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us 
to  the  hall. 


“ And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais- 
throne, 

And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 
Quest, 

Wasted  and  wrorn,  and  but  a tithe  of 
them, 

And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before 
the  King, 

Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade 
me  hail, 

Saying,  ‘A  welfare  in  thine  eye  re- 
proves 

Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance 
for  thee 

On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding 
ford. 

So  fierce  a gale  made  havoc  here  of 
late 

Among  the  strange  devices  of  our 
kings ; 

Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall 
of  ours, 

And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded 
for  us 

Half-wrench’d  a golden  wing;  but 
now  — the  Quest, 

This  vision  — hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 
Cup, 

That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glas- 
tonbury ? ” 

“So  when  I told  him  all  thyself 
hast  heard, 

Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  re- 
solve 

To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life, 

He  answer’d  not,  but,  sharply  turn- 
ing, ask’d 

Of  Gawain,  ‘ Gawain,  was  this  Quest 
for  thee  ’ 


“ ‘ Nay,  lord,’  said  Gawain,  ‘ not  for 
such  as  I. 

Therefore  I communed  with  a saintly 
man, 

WTio  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not 
for  me ; 

For'  I was  much  awearied  of  the 
Quest : 

But  found  a silk  pavilion  in  a field, 

And  merry  maidens  in  it;  and  then 
this  gale 

Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting- 
pin, 

And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all 
about 

With  all  discomfort ; yea,  and  but  for 
this, 

My  twelvemonth  and  a day  were 
pleasant  to  me.’ 

“ He  ceased ; and  Arthur  turn’d  to 
whom  at  first 

He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  entering, 
push’d 

Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot, 
caught  his  hand, 

Held  it,  and  there,  half-hidden  by  him, 
stood, 

Until  the  King  espied  him,  saying  to 
him, 

‘ Hail,  Bors ! if  ever  loyal  man  and 
true 

Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail ; ’ 
and  Bors, 

1 Ask  me  not,  for  I may  not  speak  of 
it : 

I saw  it ; ’ and  the  tears  were  in  his 
eyes. 

“Then  there  remain’d  but  Lance- 
lot, for  the  rest 

Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the 
storm ; 

Perhaps,  like  him  of  Cana  in  Holy 
Writ, 

Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the 
last ; 

‘Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,’  ask’d  the 
King,  ‘ my  friend, 

Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail’d 
for  thee  1 ’ 


328 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


“ 1 Our  mightiest ! ’ answer’d  Lance- 
lot, with  a groan ; 

‘ O King ! ’ — and  when  he  paused, 
methought  I spied 

A dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes  — 

‘ O King,  my  friend,  if  friend  of  thine 
I be, 

Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their 
sin, 

Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for 
slime, 

Slime  of  the  ditch : but  in  me  lived  a 
sin 

So  strange,  of  such  a kind,  that  all  of 
pure, 

Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined 
and  clung 

Round  that  one  sin,  until  the  whole- 
some flower 

And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as 
each, 

Not  to  be  pluck’d  asunder ; and  when 
thy  knights 

Sware,  I sware  with  them  only  in  the 
hope 

That  could  I touch  or  see  the  Holy 
Grail 

They  might  be  pluck’d  asunder.  Then 
I spake 

To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and 
said, 

That  save  they  could  be  pluck’d 
asunder,  all 

My  quest  were  but  in  vain ; to  whom 
I vow’d 

That  I would  work  according  as  he 
will’d. 

And  forth  I went,  and  while  I yearn’d 
and  strove 

To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my 
heart, 

My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old, 

And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far 
away ; 

There  was  I beaten  down  by  little 
men, 

Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving 
of  my  sword 

And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been 
enow 

To  scare  them  from  me  once ; and 
then  I came 


All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore, 

Wide  flats,  where  nothing  but  coarse 
grasses  grew; 

But  such  a blast,  my  King,  began  to 
blow, 

So  loud  a blast  along  the  shore  and 
sea, 

Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the 
blast, 

Tho’  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all 
the  sea 

Drove  like  a cataract,  and  all  the  sand 

Swept  like  a river,  and  the  clouded 
heavens 

Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the 
sound. 

And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam 
sway’d  a boat, 

Half-swallow’d  in  it,  anchor’d  with  a 
chain ; 

And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I said, 

“ 1 will  embark  and  I will  lose  myself, 

And  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my 
sin.” 

I burst  the  chain,  I sprang  into  the 
boat. 

Seven  days  I drove  along  the  dreary 
deep, 

And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all 
the  stars ; 

And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 
night 

I heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the 
surge, 

And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and 
looking  up, 

Behold,  the  enchanted  towers  of  Car- 
bonek, 

A castle  like  a rock  upon  a rock, 

With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the 
sea, 

And  steps  that  met  the  breaker ! there 
. was  none 

Stood  near  it  but  a lion  on  each  side 

That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon 
was  full. 

Then  from  the  boat  I leapt,  and  up 
the  stairs. 

There  drew  my  sword.  With  sudden- 
flaring  manes 

Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright 
like  a man, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


329 


Each  gript  a shoulder,  and  I stood 
between ; 

And,  when  I would  have  smitten 
them,  heard  a voice, 

“ Doubt  not,  go  forward ; if  thou 
doubt,  the  beasts 

AVill  tear  thee  piecemeal.”  Then  with 
violence 

The  sword  was  dash’d  from  out  my 
hand,  and  fell. 

And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I past ; 

But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I 
saw, 

No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the 
wall 

Or  shield  of  knight ; only  the  rounded 
moon 

Thro’  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 

But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I heard, 

Clear  as  a lark,  high  o’er  me  as  a lark, 

A sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost 
tower 

To  the  eastward  : up  I climb’d  a thou- 
sand steps 

With  pain  : as  in  a dream  I seem’d  to 
climb 

For  ever : at  the  last  I reach’d  a door, 

A light  was  in  the  crannies,  and  1 
heard, 

“Glory  and  joy  and  honor  to  our 
Lord 

And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail.” 

Then  in  my  madness  I essay’d  the 
door ; 

It  gave ; and  thro’  a stormy  glare,  a 
heat 

As  from  a seventimes-heated  furnace, 

I, 

Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I 
was, 

With  such  a fierceness  that  I swoon’d 
away  — 

0,  yet  methought  I saw  the  Holy 
Grail, 

All  pall’d  in  crimson  samite,  and 
around 

Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  wings 
and  eyes. 

And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my 
sin, 

And  then  my  swooning,  I had  sworn 
I saw 


That  which  I saw;  but  what  I saw 
was  veil’d 

And  cover’d ; and  this  Quest  was  not 
for  me.’ 

“ So  speaking,  and  here  ceasing, 
Lancelot  left 

The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain 
— nay, 

Brother,  I need  not  tell  thee  foolish 
words,  — 

A reckless  and  irreverent  knight  was 
he, 

Now  bolden’d  by  the  silence  of  his 
King,  — 

Well,  I tell  thee:  ‘O  King,  my 

liege,’  he  said, 

‘Hath  Gawain  fail’d  in  any  quest  of 
thine  1 

When  have  I stinted  stroke  in  fough- 
ten  field  ? 

But  as  for  thine,  my  good  friend 
Percivale, 

Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven 
men  mad, 

Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than 
our  least. 

But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I 
swear, 

I will  be  . deafer  than  the  blue-eyed 
cat, 

And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday 
owl, 

To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 

Henceforward.” 

“ ‘ Deafer,’  said  the  blameless 
King, 

‘ Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  holy 
things 

Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle 
vows, 

Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 

But  if  indeed  there  came  a sign  from 
heaven, 

Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot  and  Per- 
civale, 

For  these  have  seen  according  to 
their  sight. 

For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times, 

And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  the 
bard, 


330 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


When  God  make  music  thro’  them, 
could  but  speak 

His  music  by  the  framework  and  the 
chord ; 

And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken 
truth. 

“ ‘ Nay  — but  thou  errest,  Lancelot : 
never  yet 

Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight 
and  man 

Twine  round  one  sin,  whatever  it 
might  be, 

With  such  a closeness,  but  apart  there 
grew, 

Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou 
spakest  of, 

Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure 
nobleness ; 

Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear 
its  flower. 

“ ‘ And  spake  I not  too  truly,  O my 
knights  ? 

Was  I too  dark  a prophet  when  I said 

To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy 
Quest, 

That  most  of  them  would  follow 
wandering  fires, 

Lost  in  the  quagmire  § — lost  to  me 
and  gone, 

And  left  me  gazing  at  a barren  board, 

And  a lean  Order  — scarce  return’d  a 
tithe  — 

And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision 
came 

My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he 
saw ; 

Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off, 

And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right 
themselves, 

Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 

And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to 
face, 

And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here 
in  vain, 

However  they  may  crown  him  other- 
where. 

“ ‘ And  some  among  you  held,  that 
if  the  King 

Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  have 
sworn  the  vow  : 


Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  King  must 
guard 

That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the 
hind 

To  whom  a space  of  land  is  given  to 
plow. 

Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allot- 
ted field 

Before  his  work  be  done ; but,  being 
done, 

Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the 
day 

Come,  as  they  will;  and  many  a time 
they  come, 

Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems 
not  earth, 

This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is 
not  light, 

This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is 
not  air 

But  vision  — yea,  his  very  hand  and 
foot  — 

In  momenta  when  he  feels  he  cannot 
die, 

And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  him- 
self, 

Nor  the  high  God  a vision,  nor  that 
One 

Who  rose  again  : ye  have  seen  what 
ye  have  seen.’ 

“ So  spake  the  King  : I knew  not  all 
he  meant.” 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to 
fill  the  gap 

Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ; and  as  he 
sat 

In  the  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high 
doors 

Were  softly  sunder’d,  and  thro’  these 
a youth, 

Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the 
fields 

Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along 
with  him. 

“ Make  me  thy  knight,  because  I 
know,  Sir  King, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


331 


All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I 
love.” 

Such  was  his  cry : for  having  heard 
the  King 

Had  let  proclaim  a tournament  — the 
prize 

A golden  circlet  and  a knightly  sword, 

Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady 
won 

The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the 
sword : 

And  there  were  those  who  knew  him 
near  the  King, 

And  promised  for  him  : and  Arthur 
made  him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight,  Sir  Pelleas  of 
the  isles  — 

But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance, 

And  lord  of  many  a barren  isle  was 
he  — 

Riding  at  noon,  a day  or  twain  be- 
fore, 

Across  the  forest  call’d  of  Dean,  to 
find 

Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the 
sun 

Beat  like  a strong  knight  on  his 
helm,  and  reel’d 

Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse  ; but 
saw 

Near  him  a mound  of  even-sloping 
side, 

Whereon  a hundred  stately  beeches 
grew, 

And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under 
them  ; 

But  for  a mile  all  round  was  open 
space, 

And  fern  and  heath  : and  slowly  Pel- 
leas drew 

To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his 
good  horse 

To  a tree,  cast  himself  down ; and  as 
he  lay 

At  random  looking  over  the  brown 
earth 

Thro’  that  green-glooming  twilight  of 
the  grove, 

It  seem’d  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern 
without 

Burnt  as  a living  fire  of  emeralds, 


So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking 
at  it. 

Then  o’er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a 
cloud 

Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a 
bird 

Flying,  and  then  a fawn ; and  his 
eyes  closed. 

And  since  he  loved  all  maidens,  but 
no  maid 

In  special,  half-awake  he  whisper’d, 
“ Where  ? 

O where  1 I love  thee,  tho’  I know 
thee  not. 

For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guine- 
vere, 

And  I will  make  thee  with  my  spear 
and  sword 

As  famous — O my  Queen  my  Guine- 
vere, 

For  I will  be  thine  Arthur  when  we 
meet.” 

Suddenly  waken’d  with  a sound  of 
talk 

And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood, 
And  glancing  thro’  the  hoary  boles, 
he  saw, 

Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might 
have  seem’d 

A vision  hovering  on  a sea  of  fire, 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of 
bracken  stood : 

And  all  the  damsels  talk’d  confusedly, 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and 
one  that, 

Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose, 
And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to 
the  light. 

There  she  that  seem’d  the  chief  among 
them  said, 

“ In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star ! 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we 
ride, 

Arm’d  as  ye  see,  to  tilt  against  the 
knights 


332 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our 
way : 

To  right  % to  left  ? straight  forward  ? 
back  again  ? 

Which  ? tell  us  quickly.” 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 

“ Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful  ? ” 

For  large  her  violet  eyes  look’d,  and 
her  bloom 

A rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless 
heavens, 

And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in 
womanhood ; 

And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small 
her  shape ; 

And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts 
of  scorn, 

She  might  have  seem’d  a toy  to  trifle 
with, 

And  pass  and  care  no  more.  But 
while  he  gazed 

The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash’d  the 
boy, 

As  tho’  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul  : 

For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the 
good, 

Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by 
default 

Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 

All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul 
to  hers, 

Believing  her;  and  when  she  spake 
to  him, 

Stammer’d,  and  could  not  make  her  a 
reply. 

For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he 
come, 

Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had 
known 

Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles, 

Rough  wives,  that  laugh’d  and 
scream’d  against  the  gulls, 

Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the 
sea. 

Then  with  a slow  smile  turn’d  the 
lady  round 

And  look’d  upon  her  people ; and  as 
when 

A stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping 
tarn, 


The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge, 

Spread  the  slow  smile  thro’  all  her 
company. 

Three  knights  were  thereamong ; and 
they  too  smiled, 

Scorning  him ; for  the  lady  was 
Ettarre, 

And  she  was  a great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  “ O wild  and  of  the 
woods, 

Knowest  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our 
speech  ? 

Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee 
a fair  face, 

Lacking  a tongue  ? ” 

“ O damsel,”  answer’d  he, 

“ I woke  from  dreams ; and  coming 
out  of  gloom 

Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and 
crave 

Pardon  : but  will  ye  to  Caerleon  ? I 

Go  likewise  : shall  I lead  you  to  the 
King  ? ” 

“ Lead  then,”  she  said ; and  thro’ 
the  woods  they  went. 

And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in 
his  eyes, 

His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste 
awe, 

His  broken  utterances  and  bashful- 
ness, 

Were  all  a burthen  to  her,  and  in  her 
heart 

She  mutter’d,  “I  have  lighted  on  a 
fool, 

Raw,  yet  so  stale ! ” But  since  her 
mind  was  bent 

On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her 
name 

And  title,  “ Queen  of  Beauty,”  in  the 
lists 

Cried  — and  beholding  him  so  strong, 
she  thought 

That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for 
me, 

And  win  the  circlet : therefore  flatter’d 
him, 

Being  so  gracious,  that  he  wellnigh 
deem’d 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTA  PEE. 


333 


His  wish  by  hers  was  echo’d ; and  her 
knights 

And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious 
to  him, 

For  she  was  a great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach’d 

Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging, 
she, 

Taking  his  hand,  “ 0 the  strong  hand,” 
she  said, 

“ See ! look  at  mine ! but  wilt  thou 
fight  for  me, 

And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 

That  I may  love  thee  1 ” 

Then  his  helpless  heart 

Leapt,  and  he  cried,  “ Ay ! wilt  thou 
if  I win  ? ” 

“Ay,  that  will  I,”  she  answer’d,  and 
she  laugh’d, 

And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung 
it  from  her ; 

Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three 
knights  of  hers, 

Till  all  her  ladies  laugh’d  along  with 
her. 

“ O happy  world,”  thought  Pelleas, 
“all,  meseems, 

Are  happy;  I the  happiest  of  them 
all.” 

Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in 
his  blood, 

And  green  wood-ways,  and  eyes  among 
the  leaves ; 

Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted, 
sware 

To  love  one  only.  And  as  he  came 
away, 

The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on 
their  heels 

And  wonder’d  after  him,  because  his 
face 

Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a priest 
of  old 

Against  the  flame  about  a sacrifice 

Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven  : so  glad 
was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets, 
and  strange  knights 


From  the  four  winds  came  in : and 
each  one  sat, 

Tho’  served  with  choice  from  air,  land, 
stream,  and  sea, 

Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with 
his  eyes 

His  neighbor’s  make  and  might : and 
Pelleas  look’d 

Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream’d 

His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  him- 
self 

Loved  of  the  King  : and  him  his  new- 
made  knight 

Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper 
moved  him  more 

Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the 
world. 

Then  blush’d  and  brake  the  morn- 
ing of  the  jousts, 

And  this  was  call’d  “ The  Tournament 
of  Youth : ” 

For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight, 
withheld 

His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the 
lists, 

That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady’s 
love, 

According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 

Lord  of  the  tourney.  And  Arthur 
had  the  jousts 

Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of 
Usk 

Holden : the  gilded  parapets  were 
crown’d 

With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  fill’d 
with  eyes 

Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets 
blew. 

There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept 
the  field 

With  honor : so  by  that  strong  hand 
of  his 

The  sword  and  golden  circlet  were 
achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved  : 
the  heat 

Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face ; her 
eye 

Sparkled ; she  caught  the  circlet  from 
his  lance, 


334 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


And  there  before  the  people  crown’d 
herself  : 

So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious 
to  him. 


Then  at  Caerleon  for  a space  — her 
look 

Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her 
knight  — 

Linger’d  Ettarre : and  seeing  Pelleas 
droop, 

Said  Guinevere,  “We  marvel  at  thee 
much, 

0 damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 

To  him  who  won  thee  glory  ! ” And 

she  said, 

“ Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in 
your  bower, 

My  Queen,  he  had  not  won.”  Where- 
at the  Queen, 

As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant, 

Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn’d  and 
went  her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and 
herself, 

And  those  three  knights  all  set  their 
faces  home, 

Sir  Pelleas  follow’d.  She  that  saw 
him  cried, 

“Damsels  — and  yet  I should  be 
shamed  to  say  it  — 

1 cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.  Keep  him  back 

Among  yourselves.  Would  rather 

that  we  had 

Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the 
worldly  way, 

Albeit  grizzlier  than  a bear,  to  ride 

And  jest  with  : take  him  to  you,  keep 
him  off, 

And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye 
will, 

Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 

Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell 
their  boys. 

Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a merry 
one 

To  find  his  mettle,  good : and  if  he  fly 
us, 

Small  matter!  let  him.”  This  her 
damsels  heard, 


And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel 
hand, 

They,  closing  round  him  thro’  the 
journey  home, 

Acted  her  hest,  and  always  from  her 
side 

Restrain’d  him  with  all  manner  of 
device, 

So  that  he  could  not  come  to  speech 
with  her. 

And  when  she  gain’d  her  castle,  up- 
sprang  the  bridge, 

Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro’  the 
groove, 

And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

“These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,” 
Pelleas  thought, 

“ To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of 
our  faith. 

Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost, 

For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I.” 

So  made  his  moan ; and,  darkness 
falling,  sought 

A priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but 
rose 

With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist 
or  dry, 

Full-arm’d  upon  his  charger  all  day 
long 

Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open’d  to 
him. 

And  this  persistence  turn’d  her 
scorn  to  wrath. 

Then  calling  her  three  knights,  she 
charged  them,  “ Out ! 

And  drive  him  from  the  walls.”  And 
out  they  came, 

But  Pelleas  overthrew  them  as  they 
dash’d 

Against  him  one  by  one ; and  these 
return’d, 

But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath 
the  wall. 

Thereon  her  wrath  became  a hate  ; 
and  once, 

A week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the 
walls 

With  her  three  knights,  she  pointed 
downward,  “ Look, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTA  PEE. 


335 


He  haunts  me  — 1 cannot  breathe  — 
besieges  me; 

Down ! strike  him ! put  my  hate  into 
your  strokes, 

And  drive  him  from  my  walls.”  And 
down  they  went, 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  by 
one ; 

And  from  the  tower  above  him  cried 
Ettarre, 

“ Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in.” 

He  heard  her  voice  ; 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had 
overthrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 
threw 

Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they 
brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre, 
the  sight 

Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one 
glance 

More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in 
his  bonds. 

Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  “ Be- 
hold me,  Lady, 

A prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 

And  if  thou  keep  me  in  thy  donjon  here, 

Content  am  I so  that  I see  thy  face 

But  once  a day : for  I have  sworn  my 
vows, 

And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and 
I know 

That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my 
faith, 

And  that  thyself,  when  thou  hast  seen 
me  strain’d 

And  sifted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 

Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for 
thy  knight.” 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 

With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken 
mute ; 

But  when  she  mock’d  his  vows  and 
the  great  King, 

1 Lighted  on  words : “ For  pity  of  thine 
own  self, 

Peace,  Lady,  peace:  is  he  not  thine 
and  mine  ? ” 


“ Thou  fool,”  she  said,  “ I never  heard 
his  voice 

But  long’d  to  break  away.  Unbind 
him  now, 

And  thrust  him  out  of  doors;  for  save 
he  be 

Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his 
bones, 

He  will  return  no  more.”  And  those, 
her  three, 

Laugh’d,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him 
from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a week  beyond,  again 

She  call’d  them,  saying,  “ There  he 
watches  yet, 

There  like  a dog  before  his  master’s 
door ! 

Kick’d,  he  returns : do  ye  not  hate 
him,  ye  ? 

Ye  know  yourselves:  how  can  ye  bide 
at  peace, 

Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence  ? 

Are  ye  but  creatures  of  the  board  and 
bed, 

No  men  to  strike  ? Fall  on  him  all  at 
once, 

And  if  ye  slay  him  I reck  not : if  ye  fail, 

Give  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be 
bound, 

Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him 
in : 

It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his 
bonds.” 


She  spake ; and  at  her  will  they 
couch’d  their  spears, 

Three  against  one  : and  Gawain  pass- 
ing by, 

Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 

Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of 
those  towers 

A villany,  three  to  one : and  thro’  his 
heart 

The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 

Flash’d,  and  he  call’d,  “ I strike  upon 
thy  side  — 

The  caitiffs!”  “Nay,”  said  Pelleas, 
“ but  forbear ; 

He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his  lady’s 
will.” 


336 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  villany 
done. 

Forebore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 

Trembled  and  quiver’d,  as  the  dog, 
withheld 

A moment  from  the  vermin  that  he 
sees 

Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs 
and  kills. 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to 
three ; 

And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and 
brought  him  in. 

Then  first  her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas, 
burn’d 

Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil 
name 

Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 
hound : 

“ Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit 
to  touch, 

Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and 
thrust  him  out, 

And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his 
bonds. 

And  if  he  comes  again  ” — there  she 
brake  short ; 

And  Pelleas  answer’d,  “ Lady,  for  in- 
deed 

I loved  you  and  I deem’d  you  beauti- 
ful, 

I cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty 
marr’d 

Thro’  evil  spite : and  if  ye  love  me  not, 

I cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  for- 
sworn : 

I had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my 
love, 

Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you  — fare- 
well; 

And  tho’  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my 
love, 

Vex  not  yourself:  ye  will  not  see  me 
more.” 

While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed 
upon  the  man 

Of  princely  bearing,  tho’  in  bonds, 
and  thought, 

" Why  have  I push’d  him  from  me  ? 
this  man  loves, 


If  love  there  be : yet  him  I loved  not. 
Why? 

I deem’d  him  fool  ? yea,  so  ? or  that 
in  him 

A something  — was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self ? — 

Seem’d  my  reproach  ? He  is  not  of 
my  kind. 

He  could  not  love  me,  did  lie  know  me 
well. 

Nay,  let  him  go  — and  quickly.”  And 
her  knights 

Laugh’d  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden 
out  of  door. 

Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed 
him  from  his  bonds, 

And  flung  them  o’er  the  walls ; and 
afterward, 

Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a lazar’s 
rag, 

“Faith  of  my  body,”  he  said,  “and 
art  thou  not  — 

Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur 
made 

Knight  of  his  table ; yea  and  he  that 
won  / 

The  circlet  ? wherefore  hast  thou  so 
defamed 

Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the 
rest, 

As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 
will  ? ” 

And  Pelleas  answer’d,  “ 0,  their 
wills  are  hers 

For  whom  I won  the  circlet;  and 
mine,  hers, 

Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her 
face, 

Marr’d  tho’  it  be  with  spite  and  mock- 
ery now, 

Other  than  when  I found  her  in  the 
woods ; 

And  tho’  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in 
spite, 

And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring 
me  in, 

Let  me  be  bounden,  I shall  see  her 
face  ; 

Else  must  I die  thro’  mine  unhappi- 
ness.” 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTA  PEE. 


337 


And  Gawain  answer’d  kindly  tho’ 
in  scorn, 

“ Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she 
will, 

And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 

But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 

These  fighting  hands  of  mine  — Christ 
kill  me  then 

But  I will  slice  him  handless  by  the 
wrist, 

And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for 
him, 

Howl  as  he  may.  But  hold  me  for 
your  friend  : 

Come,  ye  know  nothing : here  I pledge 
my  troth, 

Yea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 

I will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy 
work, 

And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to 
thine  hand. 

Lend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  I 
will  say 

That  I have  slain  thee.  She  will  let 
me  in 

To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and 
fall; 

Then,  when  I come  within  her  coun- 
sels, then 

From  prime  to  vespers  will  I chant 
thy  praise 

As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover, 
more 

Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till 
she  long 

To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again, 

Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds 
and  warm, 

Dearer  than  freedom.  Wherefore  now 
thy  horse 

And  armor : let  me  go  : be  comforted : 

Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy, 
and  hope 

The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee 
news  of  gold.” 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all 
his  arms, 

Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize, 
and  took 

Gawain’s,  and  said,  “ Betray  me  not, 
but  help  — 


Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light- 
of-love  ? ” 

“ Ay,”  said  Gawain,  “ for  women  be 
so  light.” 

Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle 
walls, 

And  raised  a bugle  hanging  from  his 
neck, 

And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 

That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the 
wall 

Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunt- 
ing-tide. 

Up  ran  a score  of  damsels  to  the 
tower ; 

“ Avaunt,”  they  cried,  “ our  lady  loves 
thee  not.” 

But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  vizor  said, 

■ “ Gawain  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur’s 
court, 

And  I have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom 
ye  hate : 

Behold  his  horse  and  armor.  Open 
gates, 

And  I will  make  you  merry.” 

And  down  they  ran, 

Her  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady, 
“ Lo! 

Pelleas  is  dead  — he  told  us  — he  that 
hath 

His  horse  and  armor : will  ye  let  him 
in  ? 

He  slew  him!  Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 
court, 

Sir  Gawain  — there  he  waits  below  the 
wall, 

Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say 
him  nay.” 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on 
thro’  open  door 

Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  cour- 
teously. 

“ Dead,  is  it  so  ? ” she  ask’d.  “ Ay, 
ay,”  said  he, 

“And  oft  in  dying  cried  upon  your 
name.” 

“ Pity  on  him,”  she  answer’d,  “ a good 
knight, 


338 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at 
peace.” 

“ Ay,”  thought  Gawain,  “ and  you  be 
fair  enow : 

But  I to  your  dead  man  have  given 
my  troth, 

That  whom  ye  loathe,  him  will  I make 
you  love.” 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about 
the  land, 

Lost  in  a doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 

Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought 
a moon 

With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods 
and  ways. 

Hot  was  the  night  and  silent ; but  a 
sound 

)f  Gawain  ever  coming,  and  this 
lay — 

Which  Pelleas  had  heard  sung  before 
the  Queen, 

And  seen  her  sadden  listening  — vext 
his  heart, 

And  marr’d  his  rest  — “A  worm 
within  the  rose.” 

“ A rose,  but  one,  none  other  rose 
had  I, 

A rose,  one  rose,  and  this  was  won- 
drous fair, 

One  rose,  a rose  that  gladden’d  earth 
and  sky, 

One  rose,  my  rose,  that  sweeten’d  all 
mine  air  — 

I cared  not  for  the  thorns  ; the  thorns 
were  there. 

“ One  rose,  a rose  to  gather  by  and 

by, 

One  rose,  a rose,  to  gather  and  to 
wear, 

No  rose  but  one  — what  other  rose 
had  I? 

One  rose,  my  rose ; a rose  that  will 
not  die,  — 

He  dies  who  loves  it, — if  the  worm 
be  there.” 

This  tender  rhyme,  and  evermore 
the  doubt, 


“ Why  lingers  Gawain  with  his  golden 
news  ? ” 

So  shook  him  that  he  could  not  rest, 
but  rode 

Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound 
his  horse 

Hard  by  the  gates.  Wide  open  were 
the  gates, 

And  no  watch  kept;  and  in  thro’ 
these  he  past, 

And  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  his 
own  heart 

Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his 
own  self, 

And  his  own  shadow.  Then  he  crost 
the  court, 

And  spied  not  any  light  in  hall  or 
bower, 

But  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 

Y awning ; and  up  a slope  of  garden,  all 

Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  brambles 
mixt 

And  overgrowing  them,  went  on,  and 
found, 

Here  too,  all  hush’d  below  the  mellow 
moon, 

Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a tiny  cave 

Came  lightening  downward,  and  so 
spilt  itself 

Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 

Then  was  he  ware  of  three  pavil- 
ions rear’d 

Above  the  bushes, gilden-peakt : in  one, 

Bed  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdane 
knights 

Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires 
across  their  feet : 

In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 

Froz’n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her 
damsels  lay : 

And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the 
jousts 

Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  and 
Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a hand  that  pushes  thro’ 
the  leaf 

To  find  a nest  and  feels  a snake,  he 
drew : 

Back,  as  a coward  slinks  from  what 
he  fears 


FELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


339 


To  cope  with,  or  a traitor  proven,  or 
hound 

Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 

Creep  with  his  shadow  thro’  the  court 
again, 

Fingering  at  his  sword-handle  until  he 
stood 

There  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more, 
and  thought, 

“ I will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where 
they  lie.” 

And  so  went  back,  and  seeing  them 
yet  in  sleep 

Said,  “Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holy 
sleep, 

Your  sleep  is  death,”  and  drew  the 
sword,  and  thought, 

“ What ! slay  a sleeping  knight?  the 
King  hath  bound 

And  sworn  me  to  this  brotherhood  ; ” 
again, 

“Alas  that  ever  a knight  should  be 
so  false.” 

Then  turn’d,  and  so  return’d,  and 
groaning  laid 

The  naked  sword  athwart  their  naked 
throats, 

There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping ; and 
she  lay, 

The  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her 
brows, 

And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her 
throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting 
on  his  horse 

Stared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than 
themselves 

In  their  own  darkness,  throng’d  into 
the  moon. 

Then  crush’d  the  saddle  with  his 
thighs,  and  clench’d 

His  hands,  and  madden’d  with  himself 
and  moan’d : 

“Would  they  have  risen  against 
me  in  their  blood 

At  the  last  day?  I might  have  an- 
swer’d them 

Even  before  high  God.  O towers  so 
strong, 


Huge,  solid,  would  that  even  while  I 
gaze 

The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to 
your  base 

Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your 
harlot  roofs 

Bellowing,  and  charr’d  you  thro’  and 
thro’  within, 

Black  as  the  harlot’s  heart  — hollow 
as  a skull ! 

Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro’  your 
eyelet-holes. 

And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round 
and  round 

In  dung  and  nettles  ! hiss,  snake  — I 
saw  him  there  — 

Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell. 
Who  yells 

Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night, 
but  I — 

I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call’d 
her  fool  ? 

Fool,  beast  — he,  she,  or  I ? myself 
most  fool ; 

Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit  — 
disgraced, 

Dishonor’d  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 

Love  ? — we  be  all  alike  : only  the 
King 

Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.  O 
noble  vows ! 

0 great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of 

brutes 

That  own  no  lust  because  they  have 
no  law ! 

For  why  should  I have  loved  her  to 
my  shame  ? 

1 loathe  her,  as  I loved  her  to  my 

shame. 

I never  loved  her,  I but  lusted  for  her  — 

Away  — ” 

He  dash’d  the  rowel  into  his 
horse, 

And  bounded  forth  and  vanish’d  thro’ 
the  night. 

Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch 
on  her  throat, 

Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn’d 
herself 


340 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


To  Gawain  : “ Liar,  for  thou  hast  not 
slain 

This  Pelleas  ! here  he  stood,  and  might 
have  slain 

Me  and  thyself.”  And  he  that  tells 
the  tale 

Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn’d 

To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on 
earth, 

And  only  lover;  and  thro’  her  love 
her  life 

W asted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in  vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half 
the  night, 

And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the 
sod 

From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off 
the  hard, 

Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening 
sun, 

Beside  that  tower  where  Percivale  was 
cowl’d, 

Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of 
the  dawn. 

For  so  the  words  were  flash’d  into  his 
heart 

He  knew  not  whence  or  wherefore. 
“ O sweet  star, 

Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the 
dawn ! ” 

And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but 
felt  his  eyes 

Harder  and  drier  than  a fountain 
bed 

In  summer : thither  came  the  village 
girls 

And  linger’d  talking,  and  they  come 
no  more 

Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fill’d  it 
from  the  heights 

Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 

Of  seasons  : hard  his  eyes  ; harder  his 
heart 

Seem’d ; but  so  weary  were  his  limbs, 
that  he, 

Gasping,  “ Of  Arthur’s  hall  am  I,  but 
here, 

Here  let  me  rest  and  die,”  cast  him- 
self down, 

And  gulf’d  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep ; 
so  lay, 


Till  shaken  by  a dream,  that  Gawain 
fired 

The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning 
star 

Reel’d  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 
and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some 
one  nigh, 

Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  him, 
crying, 

“False ! and  I held  thee  pure  as  Guin- 
evere.” 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and 
replied 

“ Am  I but  false  as  Guinevere  is 
pure  ? 

Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams  7 or 
being  one 

Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not 
heard 

That  Lancelot  ” — there  he  check’d 
himself  and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  as 
with  one 

Who  gets  a wound  in  battle,  and  the 
sword 

That  made  it  plunges  thro’  the 
wound  again. 

And  pricks  it  deeper : and  he  shrank 
and  wail’d, 

“ Is  the  Queen  false  ? ” and  Percivale 
was  mute. 

“ Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held 
their  vows  ? ” 

And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a 
word. 

“ Is  the  King  true  ? ” “ The  King  ! ’* 

said  Percivale. 

“ Why  then  let  men  couple  at  once 
with  wolves. 

What ! art  thou  mad  ? 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up, 

Ran  thro’  the  doors  and  vaulted  on 
his  horse 

And  fled : small  pity  upon  his  horse 
had  he, 

Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he 
met 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTA  PEE. 


34i 


A cripple,  one  that  held  a hand  for 
alms  — 

Hunch’d  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old 
dwarf-elm 

That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast, 
the  boy 

Paused  not,  but  overrode  him,  shout- 
ing, “ False, 

And  false  with  Gawain!  ” and  so  left 
him  bruised 

And  batter’d,  and  fled  on,  and  hill 
and  wood 

Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the 
gloom, 

That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the 
world, 

Darken’d  the  common  path : he 

twitch’d  the  reins, 

And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew 
it,  swerve 

Now  off  it  and  now  on ; but  when  he 
saw 

High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Mer- 
lin built, 

Blackening  against  the  dead-green 
stripes  of  even, 

“ Black  nest  of  rats,”  he  groan’d,  “ ye 
build  too  high.” 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city 
gates 

Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily, 

Warm  with  a gracious  parting  from 
the  Queen, 

Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a 
star 

And  marvelling  what  it  was : on 
whom  the  boy, 

Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow- 
grass 

Borne,  clash’d  : and  Lancelot,  saying, 
“ What  name  hast  thou 

That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so 
hard  ? ” 

“I  have  no  name,”  he  shouted,  “a 
scourge  am  I, 

To  lash  the  treasons  of  the  Table 
Round.” 

“Yea,  but  thy  name?”  “I  have 
many  names,”  he  cried  : 

"I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate 
and  evil  fame, 


And  like  a poisonous  wind  I pass  to 
blast 

And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and 
the  Queen.” 

“ First  over  me,”  said  Lancelot,  “ shalt 
thou  pass.” 

“Fight  therefore,”  yell’d  the  other, 
and  either  knight 

Drew  back  a space,  and  when  they 
closed,  at  once 

The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  flounder- 
ing flung 

His  rider,  who  call’d  out  from  the 
dark  field, 

“Thou  art  false  as  Hell:  slay  me:  I 
have  no  sword.” 

Then  Lancelot,  “Yea,  between  thy 
lips  — and  sharp ; 

But  here  will  I disedge  it  by  thy 
death.” 

“ Slay  then,”  he  shriek’d,  “ my  will  is 
to  be  slain,” 

And  Lancelot,  with  his  heel  upon  the 
fall’n, 

Rolling  his  eyes,  a moment  stood, 
then  spake . 

“Rise,  weakling;  I am  Lancelot;  say 
thy  say.” 


And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war- 
horse  back 

To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief 
while 

Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the 
dark  field, 

And  follow’d  to  the  city.  It  chanced 
that  both 

Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and 
pale. 

There  with  her  knights  and  dames 
was  Guinevere. 

Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lance- 
lot 

So  soon  return’d,  and  then  on  Pelleas, 
him 

Who  had  not  greeted  her,  but  cast 
himself 

Down  on  a bench,  hard-breathing. 
“ Have  ye  fought  ? ” 

She  ask’d  of  Lancelot.  “Ay,  nr 
Queen,”  he  said 


342 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


“ And  thou  hast  overthrown  him  1 ” 
“ Ay,  my  Queen.” 

Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  “ 0 
young  knight. 

Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood 
in  thee  fail’d 

So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfro- 
wardly, 

A fall  from  him  ? ” Then,  for  he 
answer’d  not, 

“ Or  hast  thou  other  griefs  1 If  I, 
the  Queen, 

May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and 
let  me  know.” 

But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 

She  quail’d ; and  he,  hissing  “ I have 
no  sword,” 

Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark. 
The  Queen 

Look’d  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on 
her; 

And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day 
to  be : 

And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a grove  all 
song 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of 
prey; 

Then  a long  silence  came  upon  the 
hall, 

And  Modred  thought,  “The  time  is 
hard  at  hand.” 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in 
his  mood 

Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur’s 
Table  Round, 

At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellow- 
ing woods, 

Danced  like  a wither’d  leaf  before  the 
hall. 

And  toward  him  from  the  hall,  with 
harp  in  hand, 

And  from  the  crown  thereof  a car- 
canet 

Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 

Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday, 

Came  Tristram,  saying,  “ Why  skip 
ye  so,  Sir  Pool  ? ” 


For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding 
once 

Far  down  beneath  a winding  wall  of 
rock 

Heard  a child  wail.  A stump  of  oak 
half  dead, 

From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of 
carven  snakes, 

Clutch’d  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro’ 
mid  air 

Bearing  an  eagle’s  nest : and  thro’ 
the  tree 

Rush’d  ever  a rainy  wind,  and  thro’ 
the  wind 

Pierced  ever  a child’s  cry : and  crag 
and  tree 

Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  peril- 
ous nest, 

This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her 
neck, 

And  all  unscarr’d  from  beak  or  talon, 
brought 

A maiden  babe ; which  Arthur  pity- 
ing took, 

Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear : 
the  Queen 

But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  white 
arms 

Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly. 

And  named  it  Nestling;  so  forgot 
herself 

A moment,  and  her  cares ; till  that 
young  life 

Being  smitten  in  mid  heaven  with 
mortal  cold 

Past  from  her;  and  in  time  the  carcanet 

Yext  her  with  plaintive  memories  of 
the  child : 

So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said 

“Take  thou  the  jewels  of  this  dead 
innocence, 

And  make  them,  an  thou  wilt,  a tour- 
ney-prize.” 

To  whom  the  King,  “ Peace  to  thine 
eagle-borne 

Dead  nestling,  and  this  honor  after 
death. 

Following  thy  will ! but,  O my  Queen, 
I muse 

Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  or 
zone 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


343 


Those  diamonds  that  I rescued  from 
the  tarn, 

And  Lancelot  won,  methought,  for 
thee  to  wear.” 


“Would  rather  you  had  let  them 
fall,”  she  cried, 

“ Plunge  and  be  lost  — ill-fated  as 
they  were, 

A bitterness  to  me ! — ye  look  amazed, 

Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon 
as  given  — 

Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I was  lean- 
ing out 

Above  the  river — that  unhappy  child 

Past  in  her  barge  : but  rosier  luck 
will  go 

With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that 
they  came 

Not  from  the  skeleton  of  a brother- 
slayer, 

But  the  sweet  body  of  a maiden  babe. 

Perchance  — who  knows  ? — the  pur- 
est of  thy  knights 

May  win  them  for  the  purest  of  my 
maids.” 

She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a great 
jousts 

With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the 
ways 

From  Camelot  in  among  the  faded 
fields 

To  furthest  towers ; and  everywhere 
the  knights 

Arm’d  for  a day  of  glory  before  the 
King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud 
morn 

Into  the  hall  stagger’d,  his  visage 
ribb’d 

From  ear  to  ear  with  dogwhip-weals, 
his  nose 

Bridge-broken,  one  eye  out,  and  one 
hand  off, 

And  one  with  shatter’d  fingers  dan- 
gling lame, 

A churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the 
King. 


“My  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died, 
what  evil  beast 

Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy 
face  ? or  fiend  ? 

Man  was  it  who  marr’d  heaven’s 
image  in  thee  thus  1 ” 

Then,  sputtering  thro’  the  hedge  of 
splinter’d  teeth, 

Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with 
blunt  stump 

Pitch-blacken’d  sawing  the  air,  said 
the  maim’d  churl, 

“ He  took  them  and  he  drave  them 
to  his  tower  — 

Some  hold  he  was  a table-knight  of 
thine  — 

A hundred  goodly  ones  — the  Red 
Knight,  he  — 

Lord,  I was  tending  swine,  and  the 
Red  Knight 

Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to 
his  tower ; 

And  when  I call’d  upon  thy  name  as 
one 

That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by 
churl, 

Maim’d  me  and  maul’d,  and  would 
outright  have  slain, 

Save  that  he  sware  me  to  a message, 
saying, 

‘ Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars, 
that  I 

Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in 
the  North, 

And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have 
sworn 

My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter 
to  it  — and  say 

My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his 
court, 

But  mine  are  worthier,  seeing  they 
profess 

To  be  none  other  than  themselves  — 
and  say 

My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his 
own, 

But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  pro- 
fess 

To  be  none  other ; and  say  his  hour  is 
come, 


544 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long 
lance 

Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a straw.  ’ ” 

Then  Arthur  turned  to  Kay  the 
seneschal, 

“Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 
curiously 

Like  a king’s  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 
whole. 

The  heathen  — but  that  ever-climbing 
wave, 

Hurl’d  back  again  so  often  in  empty 
foam, 

Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest  — and 
renegades, 

Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confu- 
sion, whom 

The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of 
otherwhere, 

Friends,  thro’  your  manhood  and  your 
fealty,  — now 

Make  their  last  heajl  like  Satan  in 
the  North. 

My  younger  knights,  new-made,  in 
whom  your  flower 

Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden 
deeds, 

Move  with  me  toward  their  quelling, 
which  achieved, 

The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from 
shore  to  shore. 

But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my 
place 

Encliair’d  to-morrow,  arbitrate  the 
field; 

For  wherefore  shouldst  thou  care  to 
mingle  with  it, 

Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own 
again  ? 

Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent:  is  it 
well  1 ” 


Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  fol- 
low’d him, 

And  while  they  stood  without  the 
doors,  the  King 

Turn’d  to  him  saying,  “ Is  it  then  so 
well  ? 

Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I seem  as  he 

Of  whom  was  written,  ‘ A sound  is  in 
his  ears  ’ ? 

The  foot  that  loiters,  bidden  go, — the 
glance 

That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  com- 
mand,— 

A manner  somewhat  fall’n  from  rev- 
erence — 

Or  have  I dream’d  the  bearing  of  our 
knights 

Tells  of  a manhood  ever  less  and 
lower  1 

Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my 
realm,  uprear’d, 

By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows, 

From  flat  confusion  and  brute  vio- 
lences, 

Reel  back  into  the  beast,  and  be  no 
more  1 ” 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger 
knights, 

Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply 
turn’d 

North  by  the  gate.  In  her  high  bower 
the  Queen, 

Working  a tapestry,  lifted  up  her 
head, 

Watch’d  her  lord  pass,  and  knew  not 
that  she  sigh’d. 

Then  ran  across  her  memory  the 
strange  rhyme 

Of  bygone  Merlin,  “ Where  is  he  who 
knows  ? 

From  the  great  deep  to  the  great 
deep  he  goes.” 


Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer’d,  “ It 
is  well : 

Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and 
leave 

The  leading  of  his  younger  knights 
to  me. 

Else,  for  the  King  has  will’d  it,  it  is 
well.” 


But  when  the  morning  of  a tourna- 
ment, 

By  these  in  earnest  those  in  mockery 
call’d 

The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Inno- 
cence, 

Brake  with  a wet  wind  blowing,  Lan 
celot, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


345 


Round  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like 
birds  of  prey, 

The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shriek’d, 
arose, 

And  down  a streetway  hung  with  folds 
of  pure 

White  samite,  and  by  fountains  run- 
ning wine. 

Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups 
of  gold, 

Moved  to  the  lists,  and  there,  with  slow 
sad  steps 

Ascending,  fill’d  his  double-dragon’d 
chair. 


He  glanced  and  saw  the  stately  gal- 
leries, 

Dame,  damsel,  each  thro’  worship  of 
their  Queen 

White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainless 
child. 

And  some  with  scatter’d  jewels,  like 
a bank 

Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks 
of  fire. 

He  look’d  but  once,  and  vail’d  his 
eyes  again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in 
a dream 

To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low 
roll 

Of  Autumn  thunder,  and  the  jousts 
began : 

And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellow- 
ing leaf 

And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower 
and  shorn  plume 

Went  down  it.  Sighing  weariedly,  as 
one 

Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a faded  fire, 

When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past 
away, 

Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o’er 
the  lists. 

He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the 
tournament 

Broken,  but  spake  not;  once,  a knight 
cast  down 

Before  his  throne  of  arbitration 
cursed 


The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the 
King ; 

And  once  the  laces  of  a helmet  crack’d, 

And  show’d  him,  like  a vermin  in  its 
hole, 

Modred,  a narrow  face  : anon  he  heard 

The  voice  that  billow’d  round  the 
barriers  roar 

An  ocean-sounding  welcome  to  one 
knight, 

But  newly-enter’d,  taller  than  the  rest, 

And  armor’d  all  in  forest  green, 
whereon 

There  tript  a hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 

And  wearing  but  a holly-spray  for 
crest, 

With  ever-scattering  berries,  and  on 
shield 

A spear,  a harp,  a bugle  — Tristram 
— late 

From  overseas  in  Brittany  return’d, 

And  marriage  with  a princess  of  that 
realm, 

Isolt  the  White  — Sir  Tristram  of  the 
Woods  — 

Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  some- 
time with  pain 

His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn’d 
to  shake 

The  burden  off  his  heart  in  one  full 
shock 

With  Tristram  ev’n  to  death : his 
strong  hands  gript 

And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and 
left, 

Until  he  groan’d  for  wrath  — so  many 
of  those, 

That  ware  their  ladies’  colors  on  the 
casque, 

Drew  from  before  Sir  Tristram  to  the 
bounds, 

And  there  with  gibes  and  flickering 
mockeries 

Stood,  while  he  mutter’d,  “ Craven 
crests  ! O shame  ! 

What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they 
sware  to  love  1 

The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 
more.” 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot 
gave,  the  gems, 


346 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Not  speaking  other  word  than  “ Hast 
thou  won  'i 

Art  thou  the  purest,  brother  ? See, 
the  hand 

Wherewith  thou  takest  this,  is  red  ! ” 
to  whom 

Tristram,  half  plagued  by  Lancelot’s 
languorous  mood, 

Made  answer,  “ Ay,  but  wherefore  toss 
me  this 

Like  a dry  bone  cast  to  some  hungry 
hound  1 

Let  be  thy  fair  Queen’s  fantasy. 
Strength  of  heart 

And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use 
and  skill, 

Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our 
King. 

My  hand  — belike  the  lance  hath  dript 
upon  it  — 

No  blood  of  mine,  I trow ; but  0 chief 
knight, 

Right  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield, 

Great  brother,  thou  nor  I have  made 
the  world ; 

Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I in 
mine.” 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery 
made  his  horse 

Caracole ; then  bow’d  his  homage, 
bluntly  saying, 

“Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  wor- 
ships each 

Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love, 
behold 

This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not 
here.” 

And  most  of  these  were  mute,  some 
anger’d,  one, 

Murmuring,  “ All  courtesy  is  dead,” 
and  one, 

“ The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 
more.” 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt 
and  mantle  clung, 

And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan 
day 

Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and 
weariness  : 


But  under  her  black  brows  a swarthy 
one 

Laugh’d  shrilly,  crying;  “ Praise  the 
patient  saints, 

Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 
past, 

Tho’  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt. 
So  be  it. 

The  snowdrop  only,  flowering  thro’  the 
year, 

Would  make  the  world  as  blank  as 
Winter-tide. 

Come  — let  us  gladden  their  sad  eyes, 
our  Queen’s 

And  Lancelot’s  at  this  night’s  solemnity 

With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the 
field.” 

So  dame  and  damsel  glitter’d  at  the 
feast 

Variously  gay:  for  he  that  tells  the 
tale 

Liken’d  them,  saying,  as  when  an  hour 
of  cold 

Falls  on  the  mountain  in  midsummer 
snows, 

And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain 
flowers 

Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour 
returns 

With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 
again ; 

So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple 
white, 

And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live 
grass, 

Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcup,  pop- 
py, glanced 

About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so 
loud 

Beyond  all  use,  that,  half-amazed, 
the  Queen, 

And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  law- 
less jousts, 

Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to 
her  bower 

Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow 
morn, 

High  over  all  the  yellowing  Autumn 
tide, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


347 


Danced  like  a wither’d  leaf  before  the 
hall. 

Then  Tristram  saying,  “ Why  skip  ye 
so,  Sir  Fool  ? ” 

Wheel’d  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet 
replied, 

“ Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company  ; 

Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much 
wit 

Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I 
skip 

To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of 
all.” 

“ Ay,  fool,”  said  Tristram,  but  ’tis 
eating  dry 

To  dance  without  a catch,  a roundelay 

To  dance  to.”  Then  he  twangled  on 
his  harp, 

And  while  he  twangled  little  Dagonet 
stood 

Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 

Stay’d  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a 
brook ; 

But  when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt 
again ; 

And  being  ask’d,  “ Why  skip  ye  not, 
Sir  Fool  1 ” 

Made  answer,  “I  had  liefer  twenty 
years 

Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 

Than  any  broken  music  thou  canst 
make.” 

Then  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip 
to  come, 

“ Good  now,  what  music  have  I 
broken, fool  1 ” 

And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  “Arthur, 
the  King’s  ; 

For  when  thou  playest  that  air  with 
Queen  Isolt, 

Thou  makest  broken  music  with  thy 
bride, 

Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brit- 
tany — 

And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur’s  music 
too.” 

“ Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy 
brains, 

Sir  Fool,”  said  Tristram,  “ I would 
break  thy  head. 

Fool,  I came  late,  the  heathen  wars 
were  o’er, 


The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by 
the  shell  — 

lam  but  a fool  to  reason  with  a fool  — 

Come,  thou  art  crabb’d  and  sour : 
but  lean  me  down, 

Sir  Dagonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses’ 
ears, 

And  harken  if  my  music  he  not  true. 

“‘Free  love  — free  field  — we  love 
but  while  we  may  : 

The  woods  are  hush’d,  their  music  is 
no  more  : 

The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past 
away : 

New  leaf,  new  life  — the  days  of  frost 
are  o’er : 

New  life,  new  love,  to  suit  the  newer 
day: 

New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 
before  : 

Free  love  — free  field  — we  love  but 
wrhile  we  may.’ 

“ Ye  might  have  moved  slow-meas- 
ure  to  my  tune, 

Not  stood  stockstill.  I made  it  in  the 
woods, 

And  heard  it  ring  as  true  as  tested 
gold.” 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised 
in  his  hand, 

“Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain 
yesterday 

Made  to  run  wine '?  — but  this  had  run 
itself 

All  out  like  a long  life  to  a sour 
end  — 

And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  gold 
en  cups 

To  hand  the  wine  to  whosoever  came  — 

The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as 
Innocence, 

In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe, 

Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence 
the  Queen 

Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the 
King 

Gave  for  a prize  — and  one  of  those 
white  slips 


348 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty 
one, 

‘Drink,  drink,  Sir  Fool,’  and  there- 
upon I drank, 

Spat  — pish  — the  cup  was  gold,  the 
draught  was  mud.” 

And  Tristram,  “ Was  it  muddier  than 
thy  gibes  % 

Is  all  the  laughter  gone  dead  out  of 
thee  % — 

^ot  marking  how  the  knighthood 
mock  thee,  fool  — 

Fear  God:  honor  the  King  — his 
one  true  knight  — 

Sole  follower  of  the  vows’  — for  here 
be  they 

Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I 
came, 

Smuttier  than  blasted  grain:  but 

when  the  King 

Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so 
shot  up 

It  frighted  all  free  fool  from  out 
thy  heart ; 

Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less 
than  swine, 

A naked  aught  — yet  swine  I hold 
thee  still, 

For  I have  flung  thee  pearls  and  find 
thee  swine.” 

And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 
feet, 

“ Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies 
round  my  neck 

In  lieu  of  hers,  I’ll  hold  thou  hast 
some  touch 

Of  music,  since  I care  not  for  thy 
pearls. 

Swine  'l  I have  wallow’d,  I have 
wash’d  — the  world 

Is  flesh  and  shadow  — I have  had  my 
day. 

The  dirty  nurse,  Experience,  in  her 
kind 

Hath  foul’d  me  — an  I wallow’d,  then 
I wash’d  — 

I have  had  my  day  and  my  philoso- 
phies — 

And  thank  the  Lord  I am  King  Ar- 
thur’s fool. 


Swine,  say  ye  ? swine,  goats,  asses, 
rams  and  geese 

Troop’d  round  a Paynim  harper  once, 
who  thrumm’d 

On  such  a wire  as  musically  as  thou 

Some  such  fine  song  — but  never  a 
king’s  fool.” 

And  Tristram,  “Then  were  swine, 
goats,  asses,  geese 

The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim 
bard 

Had  such  a mastery  of  his  mystery 

That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out 
of  hell.” 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball 
of  his  foot, 

“ And  whither  harp’st  thou  thine  ? 
down!  and  thyself 

Down ! and  two  more : a helpful  harp- 
er thou, 

That  harpest  downward ! Dost  thou 
know  the  star 

We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in 
heaven  ? ” 

And  Tristram,  “Ay,  Sir  Fool,  for 
when  our  King 

Was  victor  wellnigh  day  by  day,  the 
knights, 

Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his 
name 

High  on  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of 
heaven.” 

And  Dagonet  answer’d,  “ Ay,  and 
when  the  land 

Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye 
set  yourself 

To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your 
wit  — 

And  whether  he  were  King  by  cour- 
tesy, 

Or  King  by  right  — and  so  went  harp- 
ing down 

The  black  king’s  highway,  got  so  far, 
and  grew 

So  witty  that  ye  play’d  at  ducks  and 
drakes 

With  Arthur’s  vows  on  the  great  lake 
of  fire. 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT . 


349 


Tuwhoo ! do  ye  see  it  1 do  ye  see  the 
star  1 

“Nay,  fool,”  said  Tristram,  “ not  in 
open  day.” 

And  Dagonet,  “Nay,  nor  will:  I see 
it  and  hear. 

It  makes  a silent  music  up  in  heaven, 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and  the  angels 
hear, 

And  then  we  skip.”  “ Lo,  fool,”  he 
said,  “ye  talk 

Fool’s  treason  : is  the  King  thy  brother 
fool ? ” 

Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands 
and  shrill’d, 

“ Ay,  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the  king  of 
fools  ! 

Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can 
make 

Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles, 
milk 

From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hor- 
net-combs, 

And  men  from  beasts  — Long  live  the 
king  of  fools  ! ” 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 
away ; 

But  thro’  the  slowly-mellowing  ave- 
nues 

And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Rode  Tristram  toward  Lyonnesse  and 
the  west. 

Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
For  all  that  walk’d,  or  crept,  or 
perch’d,  or  flew. 

Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a gust  hath 
blown, 

Unruffling  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  re- 
turn’d ; 

But  at  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a deer, 
Or  ev’n  a fall’n  feather, vanish’d  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to 
lawn 

Thro’  many  a league-long  bower  he 
rode.  At  length 


A lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen- 
boughs 

Furze-cramm’d,  and  bracken-rooft,  the 
which  himself 

Built  for  a summer  day  with  Queen 
Isolt 

Against  a shower,  dark  in  the  golden 
grove 

Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to 
where 

She  lived  a moon  in  that  low  lodge 
with  him : 

Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Corn- 
ish King, 

With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was 
away, 

And  snatch’d  her  thence ; yet  dread- 
ing worse  than  shame 

Her  warrior  Tristram,  spake  not  any 
word, 

But  bode  his  hour,  devising  wretched- 
ness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tris- 
tram lookt 

So  sweet,  that  halting,  in  he  past,  and 
sank 

Down  on  a drift  of  foliage  random 
blown ; 

But  could  not  rest  for  musing  how  to 
smoothe 

And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the 
Queen. 

Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from 
all 

The  tonguesters  of  the  court  she  had 
not  heard. 

But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  over- 
seas 

After  she  left  him  lonely  here  ? a 
name  1 

Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 

Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King  ? 
“ Isolt 

Of  the  white  hands  ” they  call’d  her  : 
the  sweet  name 

Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid 
herself, 

Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 
hands  of  hers, 

And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  ha  A 
thought 


350 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily, 

But  left  her  all  as  easily  and  return’d. 

The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish 
eyes 

Had  drawn  him  home  — what  marvel  ? 
then  he  laid 

. His  brows  upon  the  drifted  leaf  and 
dream’d. 

He  seem’d  to  pace  the  strand  of 
Brittany 

Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride, 

And  show’d  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 
and  both 

Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his 
Queen 

Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand 
was  red. 

Then  cried  the  Breton,  “Look,  her 
hand  is  red ! 

These  be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen 
blood, 

And  melts  within  her  hand  — her 
hand  is  hot 

With  ill  desires,  but  this  I gave  thee, 
look, 

Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower.” 

Follow’d  a rush  of  eagle’s  wings,  and 
then 

A whimpering  of  the  spirit  of  the 
child, 

Because  the  twain  had  spoiled  her 
carcanet. 

He  dream’d;  but  Arthur  with  a 
hundred  spears 

Rode  far,  till  o’er  the  illimitable  reed, 

And  many  a glancing  plash  and  sal- 
lowy  isle, 

The  wide-wing’d  sunset  of  the  misty 
marsh 

Glared  on  a huge  machicolated  tower 

That  stood  with  open  doors,  where- 
out  was  roll’d 

A roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 

Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their 
ease 

Among  their  harlot-brides,  an  evil 
song. 

“ Lo  there,”  said  one  of  Arthur’s 
youth,  for  there, 


High  on  a grim  dead  tree  before  the 
tower, 

A goodly  brother  of  the  Table  Round 

Swung  by  the  neck : and  on  the 
boughs  a shield 

Showing  a shower  of  blood  in  a field 
noir, 

And  there  beside  a horn,  inflamed  the 
knights 

At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur, 

Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and 
blow  the  horn. 

But  Arthur  waved  them  back.  Alone 
he  rode. 

Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the 
great  horn, 

That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh 
aloft 

An  ever  upward-rushing  storm  and 
cloud 

Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red  Knight 
heard,  and  all, 

Even  to  tipmost  lance  and  top- 
most helm, 

In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl’d 
to  the  King, 

“The  teeth  of  Hell  flay  bare  and 
gnash  thee  flat ! — 

Lo  ! art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted 
King 

Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood 
from  the  world  — 

The  woman-worshipper  7 Yea,  God’s 
curse,  and  I ! 

Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  para- 
mour 

By  a knight  of  thine,  and  I that  heard 
her  whine 

And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 

Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm  that 
twists  in  hell, 

And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death, 

To  hang  whatever  knight  of  thine  I 
fought 

And  tumbled.  Art  thou  King  1 — 
Look  to  thy  life  ! ” 

He  ended  : Arthur  knew  the  voice; 
the  face 

Wellnigh  was  helmet-hidden,  and  the 
name 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


351 


Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling 
in  his  mind. 

And  Arthur  deign’d  not  use  of  word 
or  sword, 

But  let  the  drunkard,  as  he  stretch’d 
from  horse 

To  strike  him,  overbalancing  his 
bulk, 

Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to 
the  swamp 

Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching 
wave, 

Heard  in  dead  night  along  that  table- 
shore, 

Drops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters 
break 

Whitening  for  half  a league,  and  thin 
themselves, 

Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon 
and  cloud, 

From  less  and  less  to  nothing;  thus 
he  fell 

Head-heavy;  then  the  knights,  who 
watch’d  him,  roar’d 

And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the 
fall’n  ; 

There  trampled  out  his  face  from 
being  known, 

And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed 
themselves : 

Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own 
cries,  but  sprang 

Thro’  open  doors,  and  swording  right 
and  left 

Men,  women,  on  their  sodden  faces, 
hurl’d 

The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and 
slew 

Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman- 
yells, 

And  all  the  pavement  stream’d  with 
massacre  : 

Then,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they 
fired  the  tower, 

Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like 
the  live  North, 

Red-pulsing  up  thro’  Alioth  and 
Alcor, 

Made  all  above  it,  and  a hundred 
meres 

About  it,  as  the  water  Moab 
saw 


Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  be- 
yond them  flush’d 

The  long  low  dune,  and  lazy-plunging 
sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from 
shore  to  shore, 

But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pain  was 
lord. 

Then,  out  of  Tristram  waking,  the 
red  dream 

Fled  with  a shout,  and  that  low  lodge 
return’d, 

Mid-forest,  and  the  wind  among  the 
boughs. 

He  whistled  his  good  warhorse  left  to 
graze 

Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted 
upon  him, 

And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering 
leaf, 

Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a 
cross, 

Stay’d  him.  “ Why  weep  ye?” 
“ Lord,”  she  said,  “ my  man 

Hath  left  me  or  is  dead ; ” whereon  he 
thought  — 

“ What,  if  she  hate  me  now  ? I 
would  not  this. 

“ What,  if  she  loves  me  still  ? I 
would  not  that. 

I know  not  what  I would  ” — but  said 
to  her, 

“ Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate 
return, 

He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love 
thee  not  ” — 

Then  pressing  day  by  day  thro’ 
Lyonnesse 

Last  in  a rocky  hollow,  belling,  heard 

The  hounds  of  Mark,  and  felt  the 
goodly  hounds 

Yelp  at  his  heart,  but  turning,  past 
and  gain’d 

Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on 
land, 

A crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a casement  sat, 

A low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her 
hair 


352 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


And  glossy-throated  grace,  Isolt  the 
Queen. 

And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tris- 
tram grind 

The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about 
her  tower, 

Flush’d,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors, 
and  there 

Belted  his  body  with  her  white  em- 
brace, 

Crying  aloud,  “ Not  Mark  — not 
Mark,  my  soul ! 

The  footstep  flutter’d  me  at  first : not 
he  : 

Catlike  thro’  his  own  castle  steals  my 
Mark, 

But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  thro’ 
his  halls 

Who  hates  thee,  as  I him  — ev’n  to 
the  death. 

My  soul,  I felt  my  hatred  for  my 
Mark 

Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that 
thou  wert  nigh.” 

To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,  “ I am 
here. 

Let  be  thy  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not 
thine.” 

And  drawing  somewhat  backward 
she  replied, 

“ Can  he  be  wrong’d  who  is  not  ev’n 
his  own, 

But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten 
me, 

Scratch’d,  bitten,  blinded,  marr’d  me 
somehow  — Mark  'i 

What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not 
strike  for  them  ? 

Not  lift  a hand  — not,  tho’  he  found 
me  thus ! 

But  hearken ! have  ye  met  him  ? 
hence  he  went 

To-day  for  three  days’  hunting  — as 
he  said  — 

And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 

Mark’s  way,  my  soul ! — but  eat  not 
thou  with  Mark, 

Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than 
fears ; 

Nor  drink : and  when  thou  passest 
any  wood 


Close  vizor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the 
bush 

Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark 
and  hell. 

My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for 
Mark 

Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for 
thee.” 

So,  pluck’d  one  way  by  hate  and 
one  by  love, 

Drain’d  of  her  force,  again  she  sat, 
and  spake 

To  Tristram,  as  he  knelt  before  her, 
saying, 

“ O hunter,  and  O blower  of  the  horn, 

Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a rover 
too, 

For,  ere  I mated  with  my  shambling 
king, 

Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the 
bride 

Of  one  — his  narrfe  is  out  of  me  — the 
prize, 

If  prize  she  were  — (what  marvel  — 
she  could  see)  — 

Thine,  friend ; and  ever  since  my 
craven  seeks 

To  wreck  thee  villanously:  but,  O 
Sir  Knight, 

What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneel’d 
to  last  ? ” 

And  Tristram,  “ Last  to  my  Queen 
Paramount, 

Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  of 
love 

And  loveliness  — ay,  lovelier  than 
when  first 

Her  light  feet  fell  on  our  rough  Ly- 
onnesse, 

Sailing  from  Ireland.” 

Softly  laugh’d  Isolt ; 

“ Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 
Queen 

My  dole  of  beauty  trebled  ? ” and  he 
said, 

“ Her  beauty  is  her  beauty,  and  thine 
thine, 

And  thine  is  more  to  me  — soft,  gra- 
cious, kind  — 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


353 


Save  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on 
thy  lips 

Most  gracious  ; but  she,  haughty,  ev’n 
to  him, 

Lancelot;  for  I have  seen  him  wan  enow 
To  make  one  doubt  if  ever  the  great 
Queen 

Have  yielded  him  her  love.” 

To  whom  Isolt, 
Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  har- 
per, thou 

Who  brakest  thro’  the  scruple  of  my 
bond, 

Calling  me  thy  white  hind,  and  say- 
ing  to  me 

That  Guinevere  had  sinn’d  against 
the  highest, 

And  I — inisyoked  with  such  a want 
of  man  — 

That  I could  hardly  sin  against  the 
lowest.” 

He  answer’d,  “ O my  soul,  be  com- 
forted ! 

If  this  be  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading- 
* strings, 

If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin, 
Crown’d  warrant  had  we  for  the 
crowning  sin 

That  made  us  happy : but  how  ye 
greet  me  — fear 

And  fault  and  doubt  — no  word  of 
that  fond  tale  — 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet 
memories 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was 
away.” 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 
Isolt, 

“I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see  thee  — yearnings  ? — ay  ! for, 
hour  by  hour, 

Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 

0 sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee, 
Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 
Seem’d  those  far-rolling,  westward- 
smiling  seas, 

Watch’d  from  this  tower.  Isolt  of 
Britain  dash’d 

Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand, 


Would  that  have  chill’d  her  bride- 
kiss  ? Wedded  her1? 

Fought  in  her  father’s  battles ? 
wounded  there? 

The  King  was  all  fulfill’d  with  grate- 
fulness, 

And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands, 
that  heal’d 

Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and 
caress  — 

W ell  — can  I wish  her  any  huger 
wrong 

Than  having  known  thee  ? her  too 
hast  thou  left 

To  pine  and  waste  in  those  sweet 
memories. 

O were  I not  my  Mark’s,  by  whom  all 
men 

Are  noble,  I should  hate  thee  more 
than  love.” 

And  Tristram,  fondling  her  light 
hands,  replied, 

u Grace,  Queen,  for  being  loved  : she 
loved  me  well. 

Did  I love  her  ? the  name  at  least  I 
loved. 

Isolt  ? — I fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt ! 

The  night  was  dark  ; the  true  star  set. 
Isolt ! 

The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark 

Isolt  ? 

Care  not  for  her  ! patient,  and  prayer- 
ful, meek, 

Pale-blooded,  she  will  yield  herself  to 
God.” 


And  Isolt  answer’d,  “ Yea,  and  why 
not  I ? 

Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not 
meek, 

Pale-blooded,  prayerful.  Let  me  tell 
thee  now. 

Here  one  black,  mute  midsummer 
night  I sat, 

Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wonder- 
ing where, 

Murmuring  a light  song  I had  heard 
thee  sing, 

And  once  or  twice  I spake  thy  name 
aloud. 


354 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Then  flash’d  a levin-brand ; and  near 
me  stood, 

In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green,  a 
fiend  — 

Mark’s  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 
dark  — 

For  there  was  Mark  : ‘ He  has  wedded 
her,’  he  said, 

Not  said,  but  hiss’d  it : then  this  crown 
of  towers 

So  shook  to  such  a roar  of  all  the 
sky, 

That  here  in  utter  dark  I swoon’d 
away, 

And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and 
cried, 

‘ I will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to 
God’  — 

And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new 
leman’s  arms.” 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with 
her  hand, 

“ May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 
old  and  gray, 

And  past  desire ! ” a saying  that 
anger’d  her. 

“ ‘ May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 
thou  art  old, 

And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! ’ I need 
Him  now. 

For  when  had  Lancelot  utter’d  aught 
so  gross 

Ev’n  to  the  swineherd’s  malkin  in  the 
mast  ? 

The  greater  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 

Far  other  was  the  Tristram,  Arthur’s 
knight ! 

But  thou,  thro’  ever  harrying  thy 
wild  beasts  — 

Save  that  to  touch  a harp,  tilt  with  a 
lance 

Becomes  thee  well  — art  grown  wild 
beast  thyself. 

How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me 
even 

In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me 
far 

In  the  gray  distance,  half  a life  away, 

Her  to  be  loved  no  more  ? Unsay  it, 
unswear ! 

Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak, 


Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  soli- 
tude, 

Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I 
should  suck 

Lies  like  sweet  wines : lie  to  me : I 
believe. 

Will  ye  not  lie  ? not  swear,  as  there 
ye  kneel, 

And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  to 
him, 

The  man  of  men,  our  King — My 
God,  the  power 

Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed 
the  King ! 

They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and 
thro’  their  vows 

The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm : 
— I say, 

Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev’n 
when  old, 

Gray-hair’d,  and  past  desire,  and  in 
despair.” 


Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up 
and  down, 

“Vows!  did  you  keep  the  vow  you 
made  to  Mark 

More  than  I mine?  Lied,  say  ye? 
Nay,  but  learnt, 

The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 
itself  — 

My  knighthood  taught  me  this  — ay, 
being  snapt  — 

We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul 
thereof 

Than  had  we  never  sworn.  I swear 
no  more. 

I swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am 
forsworn. 

For  once  — ev’n  to  the  height  — I 
honor’d  him. 

‘ Man,  is  he  man  at  all  ? ’ methought, 
when  first 

I rode  from  our  rough  Lyonnesse,  and 
beheld 

That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in 
hall  — 

His  hair,  a sun  that  ray’d  from  off  a 
brow 

Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the 
steel-blue  eyes, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


355 


The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his 
lips  with  light  — 

Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  his 
birth, 

With  Merlin’s  mystic  babble  about 
his  end 

Amazed  me ; then,  his  foot  was  on  a 
stool 

Shaped  as  a dragon  ; he  seem’d  to  me 
no  man, 

But  Michael  trampling  Satan ; so  I 
sware, 

Being  amazed:  but  this  went  by  — 
The  vows ! 

0 ay  — the  wholesome  madness  of 
an  hour — 

They  served  their  use,  their  time ; for 
every  knight 

Believed  himself  a greater  than  him- 
self, 

And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a God ; 

Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  him- 
self. 

Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he 
had  done, 

And  so  the  realm  was  made ; but 
then  their  vows  — 

First  mainly  thro’  that  sullying  of 
our  Queen  — 

Began  to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking 
whence 

Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to 
himself  ? 

Dropt  down  from  heaven  ? wash’d 
up  from  out  the  deep  ? 

They  fail’d  to  trace  him  thro’  the 
flesh  and  blood 

Of  our  old  kings:  whence  then?  a 
doubtful  lord 

To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows, 

Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 
violate : 

For  feel  this  arm  of  mine  — the  tide 
within 

Red  with  free  chase  and  heather- 
scented  air, 

Pulsing  full  man;  can  Arthur  make 
me  pure 

As  any  maiden  child  ? lock  up  my 
tongue 

From  uttering  freely  what  I freely 
hear? 


Bind  me  to  one  ? The  wide  world 
laughs  at  it. 

And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and 
know 

The  ptarmigan  that  whitens  ere  his 
hour 

Woos  his  own  end;  we  are  not  angels 
here 

Nor  shall  be  : vows  — I am  woodman 
of  the  woods, 

And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaffingale 

Mock  them : my  soul,  we  love  but 
while  we  may ; 

And  therefore  is  my  lovk  so  large  for 
thee, 

Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by 
love.” 

Here  ending,  he  moved  towrard  her, 
and  she  said, 

“ Good  : an  I turn’d  away  my  love  for 
thee 

To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as 
thyself  — 

For  courtesy  wins  women  all  as  wrell 

As  valor  may,  but  he  that  closes  both 

Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot  — taller  in- 
deed, 

Rosier  and  comelier,  thou — but  say  I 
loved 

This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and 
cast  thee  back 

Thine  OAvn  small  saw,  ‘ We  love  but 
while  we  may,’ 

Well  then,  what  answer  ? ’ 

He  that  while  she  spake, 

Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn 
her  with, 

The  jewrels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly 
touch 

The  warm  w'hite  apple  of  her  throat, 
replied, 

“Press  this  a little  closer,  swreet, 
until  — 

Come,  I am  hunger’d  and  half-an- 
ger’d — meat, 

Wine,  wine  — and  I will  love  thee  to 
the  death, 

And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to 
come.” 


356 


GUINEVERE. 


So  then,  when  both  were  brought 
to  full  accord 

She  rose,  and  set  oefore  him  all  he 
will’d ; 

And  after  these  had  comforted  the 
blood 

With  meats  and  wines,  and  satiated 
their  hearts  — 

Now  talking  of  their  woodland  para- 
dise, 

The  deer,  the  dews,  the  fern,  the 
founts,  the  lawns  ; 

Now  mocking  at  the  much  ungainli- 
ness, 

And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane 
legs  of  Mark  — - 

Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the 
harp,  and  sang : 

“Ay,  ay,  O ay  — the  winds  that 
bend  the  brier ! 

A star  in  heaven,  a star  within  the 
mere ! 

Ay,  ay,  O ay  — a star  was  my  desire, 

And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was 
near : 

Ay,  ay,  0 ay — the  winds  that  bow 
the  grass ! 

And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was 
fire, 

And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will 
pass. 

Ay,  ay,  O ay  — the  winds  that  move 
the  mere.” 

Then  in  the  light’s  last  glimmer 
Tristram  show’d 

And  swung  the  ruby  carcanet.  She 
cried, 

“ The  collar  of  some  Order,  which 
our  King 

Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my 
soul, 

For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond 
thy  peers.” 

“ Not  so,  my  Queen,”  he  said,  “ but 
the  red  fruit 

Grown  on  a magic  oak-tree  in  mid- 
heaven, 

And  won  by  Tristram  as  a tourney- 
prize, 


And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for 
his  last 

Love-offering  and  peace-offering  unto 
thee.” 

He  spoke,  he  turn’d,  then,  flinging 
round  her  neck, 

Claspt  it,  and  cried  “ Thine  Order,  O 
my  Queen ! ” 

But,  while  he  bow’d  to  kiss  the  jew- 
ell’d  throat, 

Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had 
touch’d, 

Behind  him  rose  a shadow  and  a 
shriek  — 

“ Mark’s  way,”  said  Mark,  and  clove 
him  thro’  the  brain. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and 
while  he  climb’d, 

All  in  a death-dumb  autumn-drip- 
ping gloom, 

The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look’d 
and  saw 

The  great  Queen’s  bower  was  dark,  — 
about  his  feet 

A voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  ques- 
tion’d it, 

“ What  art  thou  1 ” and  the  voice 
about  his  feet 

Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  “I  am 
thy  fool, 

And  I shall  never  make  thee  smile 
again.” 


GUINEVERE. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court, 
and  sat 

There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 

Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a little 
maid, 

A novice  : one  low  light  betwixt  them 
burn’d 

Blurr’d  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all 
abroad, 

Beneath  a moon  unseen  albeit  at  full, 

The  white  mist,  like  a face-cloth  to 
the  face, 

Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 
was  still. 


GUINEVERE. 


35  7 


For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause 
of  flight 

Sir  Modred;  he  that  like  a subtle 
beast 

Lav  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
throne, 

Heady  to  spring,  waiting  a chance : 
for  this 

He  chill’d  the  popular  praises  of  the 
King 

With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparage- 
ment ; 

And  tamper’d  with  the  Lords  of  the 
White  Horse, 

Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left ; 
and  sought 

To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Hound 

Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 

Serving  his  traitorous  end;  and  all 
his  aims 

Were  sharpen’d  by  strong  hate  for 
Lancelot.  ^ 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when 
all  the  court, 

Green-suited,  but  with  plumes  that 
mock’d  the  may, 

Had  been,  their  wont,  a-maying  and 
return’d, 

That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear 
and  eye, 

Climb’d  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden- 
wall 

To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 

And  saw  the  Queen  who  sat  betwixt 
her  best 

Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 

The  wiliest  and  the  worst ; and  more 
than  this 

He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing 

by 

Spied  where  he  crouch’d,  and  as  the 
gardener’s  hand 

Picks  from  the  colewort  a green  cater- 
pillar, 

So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flower- 
ing grove 

Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck’d  him  by 
the  heel, 

And  cast  him  as  a worm  upon  the  way  ; 

But  when  he  knew  the  Prince  tho’ 
marr’d  with  dust, 


He,  reverencing  king’s  blood  in  a bad 
man, 

Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and 
these 

Full  knightly  without  scorn;  for  in 
those  days 

No  knight  of  Arthur’s  noblest  dealt 
in  scorn; 

But,  if  a man  were  halt  or  hunch’d, 
in  him 

By  those  whom  God  had  made  full- 
lirnb’d  and  tall, 

Scorn  was  allow’d  as  part  of  his  defect, 
And  he  was  answer’d  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.  So  Sir  Lancelot 
holp 

To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice 
or  thrice 

Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and 
smiled,  and  went : 

But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day 
long 

A little  bitter  pool  about  a stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she 
laugh’d 

Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred’s  dustyfall, 
Then  shudder’d,  as  the  village  wife 
who  cries 

“ I shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my 
grave ; ” 

Then  laugh’d  again,  but  faintlier,  for 
indeed 

She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle 
beast, 

Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found, 
and  hers 

Would  be  for  evermore  a name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front 
in  hall, 

Or  elsewhere,  Modred’s  narrow  foxy 
face, 

Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persis- 
tent eye : 

Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that 
tend  the  soul, 

To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot 
die, 


358 


GUINEVERE. 


And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 

To  vex  and  plague  her.  Many  a time 
for  hours, 

Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the 
King, 

In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came 
and  went 

Before  her,  or  a vague  spiritual  fear  — 

Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of' creak- 
ing doors, 

Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a haunted 
house, 

That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the 
walls  — 

Held  her  awake : or  if  she  slept,  she 
dream’d 

An  awful  dream ; for  then  she  seem’d 
to  stand 

On  some  vast  plain  before  a setting 
sun, 

And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made 
at  her 

A ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow 
flew 

Before  it,  till  it  touch’d  her,  and  she 
turn’d  — 

When  lo ! her  own,  that  broadening 
from  her  feet, 

And  blackening,  swallow’d  all  the 
land,  and  in  it 

Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a cry  she 
woke. 

And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but 
grew; 

Till  ev’n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless 
King, 

And  trustful  courtesies  of  household 
life, 

Became  her  bane;  and  at  the  last  she 
said, 

“ O Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine 
own  land, 

For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 

And  if  we  meet  again,  some  evil  chance 

Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal 
break  and  blaze 

Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the 
King.” 

And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  re- 
main’d, 

And  still  they  met  and  met.  Again 
she  said, 


“ O Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 
hence.” 

And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a 
night 

(When  the  good  King  should  not  be 
there)  to  meet 

And  part  for  ever.  Passion-pale  they 
met 

And  greeted : hands  in  hands,  and  eye 
to  eye, 

Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they 
sat 

Stammering  and  staring : it  was  their 
last  hour, 

A madness  of  farewells.  And  Modred 
brought 

His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the 
tower 

For  testimony;  and  crying  with  full 
voice 

“Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at 
last,”  aroused 

Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lionlike 

Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl’d  him  head- 
long, and  he  fell 

Stunn’d,  and  his  creatures  took  and 
bare  him  off, 

And  all  was  still : then  she,  “ The  end 
is  come, 

And  I am  shamed  for  ever ; ” and  he 
said, 

“Mine  be  the  shame;  mine  was  the 
sin : but  rise, 

And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas  : 

There  will  I hide  thee,  till  my  life 
shall  end, 

There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against 
the  world.” 

She  answer’d,  “ Lancelot,  wilt  thou 
hold  me  so  ? 

Nay,  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our 
farewells. 

Would  God  that  thou  couldst  hide  me 
from  myself ! 

Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I was  wife,  and 
thou 

Unwedded  : yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly, 

For  I will  draw  me  into  sanctuary, 

And  bide  my  doom.”  So  Lancelot 
got  her  horse, 

Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his 
own. 


GUINEVERE. 


359 


And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way, 

There  kiss’d,  and  parted  weeping : for 
he  past, 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the 
Queen, 

Back  to  his  land  ; but  she  to  Almes- 
bury 

Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering 
waste  and  weald, 

And  heard  the  spirits  of  the  waste 
and  weald 

Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 
them  moan  : 

And  in  herself  she  moan’d  “ Too  late, 
too  late ! ” 

Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the 
morn, 

A blot  in  heaven,  the  Haven,  flying 
high, 

Croak’d,  and  she  thought,  “ He  spies 
a field  of  death  ; 

For  now  the  Heathen  of  the  Northern 
Sea, 

Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of 
the  court, 

Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the 
land.” 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury 
she  spake 

There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  “ Mine 
enemies 

Pursue  me,  but,  0 peaceful  Sisterhood, 

Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor 
ask 

Her  name  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her 
time 

To  tell  you  : ” and  her  beauty,  grace 
and  power, 

Wrought  as  a charm  upon  them,  and 
they  spared 

To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 

For  many  a week,  unknown,  among 
the  nuns  ; 

Nor  with  them  mix’d,  nor  told  her 
name,  nor  sought, 

Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for 
shrift, 

But  communed  only  with  the  little 
maid, 


Who  pleased  her  with  a babbling 
heedlessness 

Which  often  lured  her  from  herself ; 
but  now, 

This  night,  a rumor  wildly  blown 
about 

Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurp’d 
the  realm, 

And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen, 
while  the  King 

Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot : then 
she  thought, 

“ With  what  a hate  the  people  and 
the  King 

Must  hate  me,”  and  bow’d  down  upon 
her  hands 

Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who 
brook’d 

No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  “ Late  ! 
so  late ! 

What  hour,  I wonder,  now  ? ” and  when 
she  drew 

No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 

An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her; 
“ Late,  so  late ! ” 

Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen 
look’d  up,  and  said, 

“ 0 maiden,  if  indeed  ye  list  to  sing, 

Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I may 
weep.” 

Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little 
maid. 

“ Late,  late,  so  late ! and  dark  the 
night  and  chill ! 

Late,  late,  so  late ! but  we  can  enter 
still. 

Too  late,  too  late  ! ye  cannot  enter 
now. 

“No  light  had  we  : for  that  we  do 
repent ; 

And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom 
will  relent. 

Too  late,  too  late ! ye  cannot  enter 
now. 

“No  light:  so  late!  and  dark 

and  chill  the  night ! 

0 let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 

Too  late,  too  late : ye  cannot  ente" 
now. 


36o 


GUINEVERE. 


“ Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom 
is  so  sweet  ? 

0 let  us  in,  tho’  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 

No,  no,  too  late  \ ye  cannot  enter 

now.” 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  pas- 
sionately, 

Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remember- 
ing • 

Her  thought  when  first  she  came, 
wept  the  sad  Queen. 

Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling 
to  her, 

“ 0 pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no 
more ; 

But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one 
so  small, 

Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to 
obey, 

And  if  I do  not  there  is  penance  giv- 
en — 

Comfort  your  sorrows;  for  they  do 
not  flow 

From  evil  done ; right  sure  I am  of 
that, 

Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  state- 
liness. 

But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord 
the  King’s, 

And  weighing  find  them  less ; for 
gone  is  he 

To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lance- 
lot there,  , 

Round  that  strong  castle  where  he 
holds  the  Queen  ; 

And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge 
of  all, 

The  traitor  — Ah  sweet  lady,  the 
King’s  grief 

For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen, 
and  realm, 

Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any 
of  ours. 

For  me,  I thank  the  saints,  I am  not 
great. 

For  if  there  ever  come  a grief  to  me 

1 cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done. 

None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have 

brought  me  good  : 

But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 


As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet 
this  grief 

Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must 
bear, 

That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 

Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a 
cloud : 

As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 

About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked 
Queen, 

And  were  I such  a King  with  such  a 
Queen, 

Well  might  I wish  to  veil  her  wicked- 
ness, 

But  were  I such  a King,  it  could  not 
be.” 


Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter’d 
the  Queen, 

“ Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  inno- 
cent talk  7 ” 

But  openly  she  answer’d,  “ Must  not  I, 

If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his 
lord, 

Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all 
the  realm  7 ” 

“Yea,”  said  the  maid,  “this  is  all 
woman’s  grief, 

ThatsAe  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 

Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table 
Round 

Which  good  King  Arthur  founded, 
years  ago, 

With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders, 
there 

At  Camelot,  ere  the  coming  of  the 
Queen.” 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  her- 
self again, 

“ Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  fool- 
ish prate  7 ” 

But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 

“ 0 little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery 
walls, 

What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and 
Tables  Round, 

Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 
signs 

And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery  1 ’ 


GUINEVERE. 


361 


To  whom  the  little  novice  garru- 
lously, 

“ Yea,  but  I know  : the  land  was  full 
of  signs 

And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the 
Queen. 

So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was 
knight 

Of  the  great  Table  — at  the  founding 
of  it ; 

And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse, 
and  he  said 

That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe 
twain 

After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he 
heard 

Strange  music,  and  he  paused,  and 
turning  — there, 

All  down  the  lonely  coastof  Lyonnesse, 

Each  with  a beacon-star  upon  his  head,  ■ 

And  with  a wild  sea-lightabout  hisfeet, 

He  saw  them  — headland  after  head- 
land flame 

Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west : 

And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden 
swam, 

And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood 
from  the.  sea, 

And  sent  a deep  sea-voice  thro’  all  the 
land, 

To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and 
cleft 

Made  answer,  sounding  like  a distant 
horn. 

So  said  my  father  — yea,  and  further- 
more, 

Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim- 
lit  woods, 

Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with 

j°y 

Come  dashing  down  on  a tall  wayside 
flower, 

That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  this- 
tle shakes 

When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for 
the  seed : 

And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his 
horse 

The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel’d  and 
broke 

Flying,  and  link’d  again,  and  wheel’d 
and  broke 


Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 

And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 

A wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 

Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of 
the  hall ; 

And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a feast 

As  never  man  had  dream’d;  for  every 
knight 

Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long’d  for 
served 

By  hands  unseen  ; and  even  as  he  said 

Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated 
things 

Shoulder’d  the  spigot,  straddling  on 
the  butts 

While  the  wine  ran : so  glad  were 
spirits  and  men 

Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful 
Queen.” 

Then  spake  the  Queen  and  some- 
what bitterly, 

“ Were  they  so  glad  1 ill  prophets 
were  they  all, 

Spirits  and  men  : could  none  of  them 
foresee, 

Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 

And  wonders,  what  has  fall’n  upon 
the  realm  h ” 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously 
again, 

“Yea,  one,  a bard  ; of  whom  my  father 
said, 

Full  many  a noble  war-song  had  he 
sung, 

Ev’nin  the  presence  of  an  enemy’s 
fleet, 

Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  com- 
ing wave ; 

And  many  a mystic  lay  of  life  and 
death 

Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain- 
tops, 

When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of 
the  hills 

With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back 
like  flame  : 

So  said  my  father  — and  that  night 
the  bard 

Sang  Arthur’s  glorious  wars,  and 
sang  the  King 


362 


GUINEVERE. 


As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail’d 
at  those 

Who  call’d  him  the  false  son  of  Gor- 
loi’s : 

For  there  was  no  man  knew  from 
whence  he  came ; 

But  after  tempest,  when  the  long 
wave  broke 

All  down  the  thundering  shores  of 
Bude  and  Bos, 

There  came  a day  as  still  as  heaven, 
and  then 

They  found  a naked  child  upon  the 
sands 

Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea  ; 

And  that  was  Arthur ; and  they  fos- 
ter’d him 

Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  King : 

And  that  his  grave  should  be  a mystery 

From  all  men,  like  his  birth ; and 
could  he  find 

A woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 

As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  he 
sang, 

The  twain  together  well  might  change 
the  world. 

But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 

He  falter’d,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the 
harp, 

And  pale  he  turn’d,  and  reel’d,  and 
would  have  fall’n, 

But  that  they  stay’d  him  up ; nor 
would  he  tell 

His  vision  ; but  what  doubt  that  he 
foresaw 

This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the 
Queen  ? ” 

Then  thought  the  Queen,  “ Lo ! 
they  have  set  her  on, 

Our  simple-seeming  Abbess  and  her 
nuns, 

To  play  upon  me,”  and  bow’d  her 
head  nor  spake. 

Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with 
clasp’d  hands, 

Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garru- 
lously, 

Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her 
gadding  tongue 

Full  often,  “ and,  sweet  lady,  if  I seem 

To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 


Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  the 
tales 

Which  my  good  father  told  me,  check 
me  too 

Nor  let  me  shame  my  father’s  mem- 
ory, one 

Of  noblest  manners,  tho’  himself 
would  say 

Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest ; and  he 
died, 

Kill’d  in  a tilt,  come  next,  five  sum- 
mers back, 

And  left  me  ; but  of  others  who  remain, 

And  of  the  two  first-famed  for 
courtesy  — 

And  pray  you  check  me  if  I ask 
amiss  — - 

But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest, 
while  you  moved 

Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord 
the  King  ? ” 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look’d  up  and 
answer’d  her, 

“ Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a noble 
knight, 

Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the 
same 

In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 

Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  the 
King 

In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 

Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these 
two 

Were  the  most  nobly-manner’d  men 
of  all; 

For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit  * 

Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind.” 

“Yea,”  said  the  maid,  “be  manners 
such  fair  fruit  ? 

Then  Lancelot’s  needs  must  be  a thou- 
sand-fold 

Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 

The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the 
world.” 

To  which  a mournful  answer  made 
the  Queen : 

“ 0 closed  about  by  narrowing  nun 
nery-walls, 


GUINEVERE. 


363 


What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and 
all  its  lights 

And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all 
the  woe  ? 

If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble 
knight, 

Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than 
himself, 

Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom 
of  fire, 

And  weep  for  her  who  drew  him  to 
his  doom.” 

“Yea,”  said  the  little  novice,  “I 
pray  for  both ; 

But  I should  all  as  soon  believe  that 
his, 

Sir  Lancelot’s,  were  as  noble  as  the 
King’s, 

As  I could  think,  sweet  lady,  yours 
would  be 

Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful 
Queen.” 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler, 
hurt 

Whom  she  would  soothe,  and  harm’d 
where  she  would  heal ; 

For  here  a sudden  flush  of  wrathful 
heat 

Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen, 
who  cried, 

“Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden 
more 

For  ever!  thou  their  tool,  set  on  to 
plague 

And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 

And  traitress.”  When  that  storm  of 
anger  brake 

From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden 
rose, 

White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before 
the  Queen 

As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the 
beach 

Stands  in  a wind,  ready  to  break  and 

fly, 

And  when  the  Queen  had  added  “ Get 
thee  hence,” 

Fled  frighted.  Then  that  other  left 
alone 


Sigh’d,  and  began  to  gather  heart 
again, 

Saying  in  herself,  “ The  simple,  fear- 
ful child 

Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fear- 
ful  guilt, 

Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I 
repent. 

For  what  is  true  repentance  but  in 
thought  — 

Not  ev’n  in  inmost  thought  to  think 
again 

The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant 
to  us : 

And  I have  sworn  never  to  see  him 
more, 

To  see  him  more.” 

And  ev’n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the 
mind 

Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden 
days 

In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when 
Lancelot  came, 

Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest 
man, 

Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far 
ahead 

Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on 
love 

And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure, 
(for  the  time 

Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 
dream’d,) 

Rode  under  groves  that  look’d  a para- 
dise 

Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem’d  the  heavens  upbreaking 
thro’  the  earth, 

And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious 
dale 

The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthui 
raised 

For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ; and  on  again, 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they 
saw 


364 


GUINEVERE. 


The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 
ship, 

That  crown’d  the  state  pavilion  of  the 
King, 

Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent 
well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in 
such  a trance, 

And  moving  thro’  the  past  uncon- 
sciously, 

Came  to  that  point  where  first  she 
saw  the  King 

Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh’d 
to  find 

Her  journey  done,  glanced  at  him, 
thought  him  cold, 

High,  self-contain’d,  and  passionless, 
not  like  him, 

“ Not  like  my  Lancelot  ” — while  she 
brooded  thus 

And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts 
again, 

There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the 
doors. 

A murmuring  whisper  thro’  the  nun- 
nery ran, 

Then  on  a sudden  a cry  “ The  King.” 
She  sat 

Stiff-stricken,  listening ; but  when 
armed  feet 

Thro’  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer 
doors 

Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat 
she  fell, 

And  grovell’d  with  her  face  against 
the  floor : 

There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and 
shadowy  hair 

She  made  her  face  a darkness  from 
the  King  : 

And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed 
feet 

Pause  by  her ; then  came  silence,  then 
a voice, 

Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a Ghost’s 

Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho’ 
changed,  the  King’s  : 

“ Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child 
of  one 


I honor’d,  happy,  dead  before  thy 
shame  ? 

Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of 
thee. 

The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword 
and  fire, 

Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of 
laws, 

The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless 
hosts 

Of  heathen  swarming  o’er  the  Northern 
Sea ; 

Whom  I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my 
right  arm 

The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode 
with  me, 

Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of 
Christ 

In  twelve  great  battles  ruining  over- 
thrown. 

And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence 
I come  — from  him, 

Prom  waging  bitter  war  with  him : 
and  he, 

That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in 
worse  way, 

Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him 
left, 

He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the 
King 

Who  made  him  knight : but  many  a 
knight  was  slain ; 

And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and 
kin 

Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own 
land. 

And  many  more  when  Modred  raised 
revolt, 

Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty, 
clave 

To  Modred,  and  a remnant  stays  with 
me. 

And  of  this  remnant  will  I leave  a 
part, 

True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom 
I live, 

To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming 
on, 

Lest  but  a hair  of  this  low  head  be 
harm’d. 

Pear  not : thou  shalt  be  guarded  till 
my  death. 


GUINEVERE. 


365 


Howbeit  I know,  if  ancient  prophecies 

Have  err’d  not,  that  I march  to  meet 
my  doom. 

Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet 
to  me, 

That  I the  King  should  greatly  care 
to  live ; 

For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of 
my  life. 

Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while 
I show, 

Ev’n  for  thy  sake*  the  sin  which  thou 
hast  sinn’d. 

For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and 
their  law 

Relax’d  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the 
ways 

Were  fill’d  with  rapine,  here  and  there 
a deed 

Of  prowess  done  redress’d  a random 
wrong. 

But  I was  first  of  all  the  kings  who 
drew 

The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm 
and  all 

The  realms  together  under  me,  their 
Head, 

In  that  fair  Order  of  my  Table  Round, 

A glorious  company,  the  flower  of 
men, 

To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty 
world, 

And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a time. 

I made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine 
and  swear 

To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 

Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience 
as  their  King, 

To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the 
Christ, 

To  ride  abroad  redressing  human 
wrongs, 

To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to 
it, 

To  honor  his  own  word  as  if  his  God’s, 

To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 

To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to 
her, 

And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble 
deeds, 

Until  they  won  her ; for  indeed  I 
knew 


Of  no  more  subtle  master  under 
heaven 

Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a 
maid, 

Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in 
man, 

But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable 
words 

And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of 
fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes 
a man. 

And  all  this  throve  before  I wedded 
thee, 

Believing,  ‘ lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to 
feel 

My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my 

joy/ 

Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with 
Lancelot; 

Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and 
Isolt ; 

Then  others,  following  these  my 
mightiest  knights, 

And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair 
names, 

Sinn’d  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 

Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  ob- 
tain, 

And  all  tliro’  thee ! so  that  this  life  of 
mine 

I guard  as  God’s  high  gift  from  scathe 
and  wrong, 

Not  greatly  care  to  lose  ; but  rather 
think 

How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he 
live, 

To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely 
hall, 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my 
knights, 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble 
deeds 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left, 
could  speak 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance 
at  thee  ? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of 
Usk 

Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from 
room  to  room, 


366 


GUINEVERE. 


And  I should  evermore  b£  vext  with 
thee 

In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  orna- 
ment, 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the 
stair. 

For  think  not,  tho’  thou  wouldst  not 
love  thy  lord, 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for 
thee. 

I am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 

Ifet  must  I leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy 
shame. 

I hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public 
foes 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children’s 
sake, 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets 
the  wife 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule 
the  house : 

For  being  thro’  his  cowardice  allow’d 

Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for 
pure, 

She  like  a new  disease,  unknown  to 
men, 

Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the 
crowd, 

Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes, 
and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the 
pulse 

With  devil’s  leaps,  and  poisons  half 
the  young. 

Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he 
that  reigns ! 

Better  the  King’s  waste  hearth  and 
aching  heart 

Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of 
light, 

The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their 
bane.” 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she 
crept  an  inch 

Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his 
feet. 

Far  off  a solitary  trumpet  blew. 

Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war- 
horse  neigh’d 

As  at  a friend’s  voice,  and  he  spake 
again : 


“ Yet  think  not  that  I come  to  urge 
thy  crimes, 

I did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 

I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me 
die 

To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden 
head, 

My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my 
feet. 

The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts 
on  the  fierce  law, 

The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming 
death, 

(When  first  I learnt  thee  hidden  here) 
is  past. 

The  pang  — which  while  I weigh’d  thy 
heart  with  one 

Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in 
thee, 

Made  my  tears  burn  — is  also  past  — 
in  part. 

And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn’d,and  I, 

Lo ! I forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 

Forgives  : do  thou  for  thine  own  soul 
the  rest. 

But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I 
loved  ? 

0 golden  hair,  with  which  I used  to 

play 

Not  knowing!  O imperial-moulded 
form, 

And  beauty  such  as  never  woman 
wore, 

Until  it  came  a kingdom’s  curse  with 
thee  — 

1 cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not 

mine, 

But  Lancelot’s  : nay,  they  never  were 
the  King’s. 

I cannot  take  thy  hand;  that  too  is 
flesh, 

And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn’d; 
and  mine  own  flesh, 

Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted, 
cries 

‘ I loathe  thee : ’ yet  not  less,  O Guine- 
vere, 

For  I was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 

My  love  thro’  flesh  hatlrwrought  into 
my  life 

So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I love  thee 
still. 


He  paused ; and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet.” 

Page  366. 


GUINEVERE. 


367 


Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I love  thee 
still. 

Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy 
soul, 

And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father 
Christ, 

Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are 
pure 

We  two  may  meet  before  high  God, 
and  thou 

Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine, 
and  know 

I am  thine  husband  — not  a smaller 
soul, 

Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Leave  me 
that, 

I charge  thee,  my  last  hope.  Now 
must  I hence. 

Thro’  the  thick  night  I hear  the  trum- 
pet blow  : 

They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead 
mine  hosts 

Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the 
west, 

Where  I must  strike  against  the  man 
they  call 

My  sister’s  son  — no  kin  of  mine,  who 
leagues 

With  Lords  of  the  White  Horse, 
heathen,  and  knights, 

Traitors  — and  strike  him  dead,  and 
meet  myself 

Death,  or  I know  not  what  mysterious 
doom. 

And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn 
the  event; 

But  hither  shall  I never  come  again, 

Never  lie  by  thy  side ; see  thee  no 
more  — 

Farewell ! ” 

And  while  she  grovell’d  at  his  feet, 

She  felt  the  King’s  breath  wander  o’er 
her  neck, 

And  in  the  darkness  o’er  her  fallen 
head, 

Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands 
that  blest. 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed 
steps  were  gone, 


Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  an- 
guish found 

The  casement : “ peradventure,”  so 
she  thought, 

“ If  I might  see  his  face,  and  not  be 
seen.” 

And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door! 

And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each 
a light 

Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 
the  Queen, 

To  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 

And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm 
was  lower’d, 

To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon 
clung 

Of  Britain ; so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 

Which  then  was  as  an  angel’s,  but  she 
saw, 

Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 
lights, 

The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 
ship 

Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a steam 
of  fire. 

And  even  then  he  turn’d ; and  more 
and  more 

The  moony  vapor  rolling  round  the 
King, 

Who  seem’d  the  phantom  of  a Giant 
in  it, 

Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made 
him  gray 

And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 

Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his 
doom. 

Then  she  stretch’d  out  her  arms  and 
cried  aloud 

“ Oh  Arthur ! ” there  her  voice  brake 
suddenly, 

Then  — as  a stream  that  spouting  from 
a cliff 

Fails  in  mid  air,  but  gathering  at  the 
base 

Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 
vale  — 

Went  on  in  passionate  utterance : 

“ Gone  — my  lord ! 

Gone  thro’  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be 
slain ! 


368 


GUINEVERE . 


And  he  forgave  me,  and  I could  not 
speak. 

Farewell  1 I should  have  answer’d 
his  farewell. 

His  mercy  choked  me.  Gone,  my  lord 
the  King, 

My  own  true  lord!  how  dare  I call 
him  mine  ? 

The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 

And  makes  me  one  pollution  : he,  the 
King, 

Call’d  me  polluted:  shall  I kill  my- 
self ? 

What  help  in  that  ? I cannot  kill  my 
sin, 

If  soul  be  soul;  nor  can  I kill  my 
shame ; 

No,  nor  by  living  can  I live  it  down. 

The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 
to  months, 

The  months  will  add  themselves  and 
make  the  years, 

The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries, 

And  mine  will  ever  he  a name  of  scorn. 

I must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of 
fame. 

Let  the  world  be ; that  is  but  of  the 
world 

What  else  ? what  hope  1 I think  there 
was  a hope, 

Except  he  mock’d  me  when  he  spake 
of  hope ; 

His  hope  he  call’d  it;  hut  he  never 
mocks, 

For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little 
hearts. 

And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath 
forgiven 

My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me 
hope 

That  in  mine  own  heart  I can  live 
down  sin 

And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the 
heavens 

Before  high  God.  Ah  great  and  gen- 
tle lord, 

Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a 
saint 

Among  his  warring  senses,  to  thy 
knights  — 

To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride, 
that  took 


Full  easily  all  impressions  from  be- 
low, 

Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised 
the  height 

To  which  I would  not  or  I could  not 
climb  — 

I thought  I could  not  breathe  in  that 
fine  air 

That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light  — 

I wanted  warmth  and  color  which  I 
found 

In  Lancelot  — now  I see  thee  what 
thou  art, 

Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human 
too, 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Is  there 
none 

Will  tell  the  King  I love  him  tho’  so 
late  1 

Now  — ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Bat- 
tle ? none : 

Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer 
life. 

But  now  it  were  too  daring.  Ah  my 
God, 

What  might  I not  have  made  of  thy 
fair  world, 

Had  I but  loved  thy  highest  creature 
here  1 

It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the 
highest : 

It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I 
known : 

It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had 
I seen. 

We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when 
we  see  it, 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.” 

Here  her  hand 

Grasp’d,  made  her  vail  her  eyes  : she 
look’d  and  saw 

The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and 
said  to  her, 

“ Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  I not  for- 
given ? ” 

Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy 
nuns 

All  round  her,  weeping  ; and  her  heart 
was  loosed 

Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these 
and  said, 


THE  PASS/JVG  OP  ARTHUR . 


369 


“Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked 
one,  who  broke 

The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the 
King. 

0 shut  me  round  with  narrowing 

nunnery  walls, 

Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying 
* shame.’ 

1 must  not  scorn  myself : he  loves  me 

still. 

Let  no  one  dream  hut  that  he  loves 
me  still. 

So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me, 

Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with 
you; 

Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a nun 
like  you, 

Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with 
your  feasts ; 

Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving 
at  your  joys. 

But  not  rejoicing;  mingle  with  your 
rites ; 

Pray  and  he  pray’d  for;  lie  before 
your  shrines ; 

Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy 
house ; 

Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute 
dole 

To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  His  eyes 
End  of  “ The  . 


Who  ransom’d  us,  and  haler  too  than 
I; 

And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and 
heal  mine  own ; 

And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in 
prayer 

The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous 
day, 

Which  wTrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord 
the  King.” 


She  said:  they  took  her  to  them 
selves;  and  she 

Still  hoping,  fearing  “is  it  yet  too 
late  1 ” 

Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their 
Abbess  died. 

Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her 
pure  life, 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in 
her, 

And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she 
had  borne, 

Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess, 
lived 

For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an 
Abbess,  past 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there 
is  peace. 

Bound  Table.” 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere, 

First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the 
knights, 

Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than 
a voice 

In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to 
those 

With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces, 
other  minds. 

For  on  their  march  to  westward, 
Bedivere, 

Who  slowly  paced  among  the  slumber- 
ing host, 

Heard  in  his  tent  the  moanings  of  the 
King: 


“I  found  Him  in  the  shining  of  the 
stars, 

I mark’d  Him  in  the  flowering  of  His 
fields, 

But  in  His  ways  with  men  I find  Him 
not. 

I waged  His  wars,  and  now  I pass  and 
die. 

O me ! for  why  is  all  around  us 
here 

As  if  some  lesser  god  had  made  the 
world, 

But  had  not  force  to  shape  it  as  he 
would, 

Till  the  High  God  behold  it  from  be- 
yond, 

And  enter  it,  and  make  it  beautiful  1 


370 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Or  else  as  if  the  world  were  wholly 
fair, 

But  that  these  eyes  of  men  are  dense 
and  dim, 

And  have  not  power  to  see  it  as  it  is  : 

Perchance,  because  we  see  not  to  the 
close ; — 

For  I,  being  simple,  thought  to  work 
His  will, 

And  have  but  stricken  with  the  sword 
in  vain ; 

And  all  whereon  I lean’d  in  wife  and 
friend 

Is  traitor  to  my  peace,  and  all  my 
realm 

Reels  back  into  the  beast,  and  is  no 
more. 

My  God,  thou  hast  forgotten  me  in 
my  death  : 

Nay — God  my  Christ  — I pass  but 
shall  not  die.” 

Then,  ere  that  last  weird  battle  in 
the  west, 

There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Ga- 
wain  kill’d 

In  Lancelot’s  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 
blown 

Along  a wandering  wind,  and  past  his 
ear 

Went  shrilling,  “Hollow,  hollow  all 
delight! 

Hail,  King ! to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 
away. 

Farewell ! there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for 
thee. 

And  I am  blown  along  a wandering 
wind, 

And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  de- 
light.” 

And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds 
that  change 

Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail 
their  way 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long 
wind  the  dream 

Shrill’d ; but  in  going  mingled  with 
dim  cries 

Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the 
hills, 

As  of  some  lonely  city  sack’d  by 
night, 


When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child 
with  wail 

Pass  to  new  lords ; and  Arthur  woke 
and  call’d, 

“ Who  spake  ? A dream.  O light 
upon  the  wind, 

Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice  — are 
these  dim  cries 

Thine  ? or  doth  all  that  haunts  the 
waste  and  wild 

Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with 
me  'i  ” 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere 
and  spake : 

“ O me,  my  King,  let  pass  whatever 
will, 

Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of 
the  field ; 

But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 
cling 

To  all  high  places  like  a golden  cloud 

For  ever : but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not 
pass. 

Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 
death 

Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the 
man ; 

And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from 
him,  but  rise  — 

I hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the 
west, 

And  with  him  many  of  thy  people, 
and  knights 

Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved, 
but  grosser  grown 

Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows 
and  thee. 

Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee 
for  the  King. 

Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old.” 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere  : 

“Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 

Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we 
strove  in  youth, 

And  brake  the  petty  kings,  and  fought 
with  Rome, 

Or  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman 
wall, 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


371 


And  shook  him  thro’  the  north.  Ill 
doom  is  mine 

To  war  against  my  people  and  my 
knights. 

The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights 
himself. 

And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me 
once,  the  stroke 

That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death 
to  me. 

Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a 
way 

Thro’  this  blind  haze,  which  ever 
since  I saw 

One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 

Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the 
world.” 

Then  rose  the  King  and  moved  his 
host  by  night, 

And  ever  push’d  Sir  Modred,  league 
by  league, 

Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyon- 
nesse  — 

A land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 

By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again ; 

Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples 
dwelt, 

And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a 
coast 

Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 

The  phantom  circle  of  a moaning  sea. 

There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no 
more, 

And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the 
King ; 

And  there,  that  day  when  the  great 
light  of  heaven 

Burn’d  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling 
year, 

On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea 
they  closed. 

Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a 
fight 

Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 
west. 

A deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and 
sea  : 

Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 
it,  drew 

Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart 
was  cold 


With  formless  fear ; and  ev’n  on 
Arthur  fell 

Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he 
fought. 

For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in 
the  mist, 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing 
whom  he  slew; 

And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden 
youth, 

And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old 
ghosts 

Look  in  upon  the  battle ; and  in  the 
mist 

Was  many  a noble  deed,  many  a base, 

And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in 
single  fights, 

And  ever  and.  anon  with  host  to 
host 

Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the 
hard  mail  hewn, 

Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of 
brands,  the  crash 

Of  battle-axes  on  shatter’d  helms,  and 
shrieks 

After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling 
down 

Look’d  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw 
the  mist ; 

And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor 
knights, 

Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous 
blasphemies, 

Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of 
the  lungs 

In  that  close  mist,tmd  cryings  for  the 
light, 

Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the 
dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  after 
wail 

Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro’ 
death 

Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 
shore, 

Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething 
seas, 

A dead  hush  fell ; but  when  the  dolo- 
rous day 

Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling, 
came 


372 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


A bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North, 

. and  blew 

The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 
tide 

Rose,  and  the  pale  King  glanced 
across  the  field 

Of  battle : but  no  man  was  moving 
there ; 

Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard 
thereon, 

Nor  yet  of  heathen ; only  the  wan 
wave 

Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and 
fro 

Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up 
and  down 

Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets  of  the 
fallen, 

And  shiver’d  brands  that  once  had 
fought  with  Rome, 

And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy 
shores 

The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to 
be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere, 

And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day 
long 

Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the 
King : 

“ Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that 
shakes  the  world, 

And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon 
we  move, 

And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead, 

My  dead,  as  tho’  they  had  not  died 
for  me  1 — 

O Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath 
fall’n 

Confusion,  till  I know  not  what  I am, 

Nor  whence  I am,  nor  whether  I be 
King. 

Behold,  I seem  but  King  among  the 
dead.” 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere ; 
“My  King, 

King  everywhere!  and  so  the  dead 
have  kings, 

There  also  will  I worship  thee  as  King. 


Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I 
live 

Who  love  thee ; but  who  hates  thee, 
he  that  brought 

The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder 
stands, 

Modred,  unharm’d,  the  traitor  of  thine 
house.” 

Then  spake  the  King : “ My  house 
hath  been  my  doom. 

But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my 
house 

Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof 
with  me. 

My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware 
my  vows, 

Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them, 
own’d  me  King. 

And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark 
hour, 

When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne 
hath  fail’d, 

-That  quick  or  dead  thou  holdest  me 
for  King. 

King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry  ; 

And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt 
thou  see 

Yet,  ere  I pass.”  And  uttering  this 
the  King 

Made  at  the  man : then  Modred  smote 
his  liege 

Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a 
heathen  sword 

Had  beaten  thin ; while  Arthur  at  one 
blow, 

Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excali- 
bur, 

Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself, 
he  fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle 
roll’d 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter 
sea ; 

Until  King  Arthur’s  Table,  man  by 
man, 

Had  fall’n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their 
lord, 

King  Arthur.  Then,  because  his 
wound  was  deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


373 


And  bore  him  to  a chapel  nigh  the 
field, 

A broken  chancel  with  a broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a dark  strait  of  barren 
land  : 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a great  water,  and  the  moon  was 
full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere : 

“ The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous 
knights 

Whereof  this  world  holds  record. 
Such  a sleep 

They  sleep  — the  men  I loved.  I 
think  that  we 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knight- 
ly deeds, 

Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the 
halls 

Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I perish  by  this  people  which  I made, — 
Tho’  Merlin  sware  that  I should  come 
again 

To  rule  once  more  ; but,  let  what  will 
be,  be, 

I am  so  deeply  smitten  thro’  the  helm 
That  without  help  I cannot  last  till 
morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excal- 
libur, 

Which  was  my  pride:  for  thou  re- 
memberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 
an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 
lake, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

Holding  the  sword  — and  how  I row’d 
across 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 
king; 

And,  wheresoever  I am  sung  or 
told 

In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not : take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle 
mere  : 


Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly 
bring  me  word.” 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

“ It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 
thus, 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro’ 
the  helm  — 

A little  thing  may  harm  a wounded 
man  ; 

Yet  I thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 

Watch  what  I see,  and  lightly  bring 
thee  word.” 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin’d  shrine 
he  stept, 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 
tombs, 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  an- 
cient men. 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He, 
stepping  down 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 
rock, 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the 
lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur, 

And  o’er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon, 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a long  cloud, 
ran  forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 
the  hilt : 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  dia- 
mond sparks, 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth- 
work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.  He  gazed  so 
long 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he 
stood, 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 
mind, 

In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it 
seem’d 

Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal’d 

There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags 


374 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 
marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wound- 
ed King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bed- 
ivere  : 

“ Hast  thou  perform’d  my  mission 
which  I gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what 
hast  heard  ? ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bed- 
ivere : 

“ I heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds, 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the 
crag.” 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 
and  pale : 

“ Thou  hast  betray’d  thy  nature  and 
thy  name, 

Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  be- 
seem’d 

Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a noble  knight : 

For  surer  sign  had  follow’d,  either 
hand, 

Or  voice,  or  else  a motion  of  the  mere. 

This  is  a shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 

Yet  now,  I charge  thee,  quickly  go 
again, 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 
thing 

I bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 
me  word.” 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 
time 

Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside 
the  mere, 

Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix’d  in 
thought ; 

But  when  he  sa  w the  wonder  of  the 
hilf, 

How  curiously  and  strangely  chased, 
he  smote 

His  palms  together,  and  he  cried 
aloud : 

“ And  if  indeed  I cast  the  brand 
away, 


Surely  a precious  thing,  one  worthy 
note, 

Should  thus  be  lbst  for  ever  fiom  the 
earth, 

Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes 
of  many  men. 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 
were  done  ? 

What  harm,  undone  ? Deep  harm  to 
disobey, 

Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 

Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a king 
demand 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 

The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 
he  does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 

Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty 
breath 

And  rumors  of  a doubt  ? But  were 
this  kept, 

Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of 
mighty  kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a joust  of 
arms, 

Saying,  ‘ King  Arthur’s  sword,  Excali- 
bur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 
Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in 
the  deeps 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.’ 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 
aftertime 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 
were  lost.” 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own 
conceit, 

And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 

And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wound- 
ed King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing heavily : 

“ What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ? or  what 
hast  heard  ? ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi 
vere  : 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


375 


“ I heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds.” 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur, 
much  in  wrath  : 

“Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted ! W oe  is 
me ! 

Authority  forgets  a dying  king, 

Laid  widow’d  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowed  the  will.  I see  thee  what 
thou  art, 

For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my 
knights, 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  pre- 
cious hilt ; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the 
eyes. 

Yet,  for  a man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get 
thee  hence : 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my 
hands.” 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere, 
and  ran, 

And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 
plunged 

Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutch’d 
the  sword, 

And  strongly  wheel’d  and  threw  it. 
The  great  brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of 
the  moon, 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and 
whirl’d  in  an  arch, 

Shot  like  a streamer  of  the  northern 
morn, 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  win- 
ter shock 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  Northern 
Sea. 

So  flash’d  and  fell  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur : 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 
arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 


And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish’d  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere. 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the 
King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing 
thicker  breath: 

“Now  see  I by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 
done. 

* Speak  out : what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 
or  seen  'l  ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bed- 
ivere : 

“ Sir  King,  I closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 
the  gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I never 
saw, 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till 
I die, 

Not  tho’  I live  three  lives  of  mortal 
men, 

So  great  a miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I flung  him, 
wheeling  him ; 

But  when  I look’d  again,  behold  an 
arm, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and 
brandish’d  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 
the  mere.” 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur, 
breathing  hard  : 

“ My  end  draws  nigh ; ’tis  time  that 
I were  gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 
my  weight, 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I 
fear 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I 
shall  die.” 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he 
half  rose, 

Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his 
arm, 


376 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 
eyes 

As  in  a picture.  Him  Sir  Bedivere 

Remorsefully  regarded  thro’  his  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 
not  words  ; 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 
one  knee, 

O’er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands, 

And  rising  bore  him  thro’  the  place 
of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk’d,  King  Arthur 
panted  hard, 

Like  one  that  feels  a nightmare  on 
his  bed 

When  all  the  house  is  mute.  So 
sigh’d  the  King, 

Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear, 
“ Quick,  quick ! 

I fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I shall  die.” 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from 
ridge  to  ridge, 

Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking, 
as  he  walk’d, 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen 
hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 
cry 

Before.  His  own  thought  drove  him 
like  a goad. 

Dry  clash’d  his  harness  in  the  icy 
caves 

And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left 
and  right 

The  bare  black  cliff  clang’d  round 
him,  as  he  based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 
rang 

Sharp-smitten  witli  the  dint  of  armed 
heels  — 

And  on  a sudden,  lo  ! the  level  lake, 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter 
moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a 
dusky  barge, 

Dark  as  a funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 
stern, 

Beneath  them ; and  descending  they 
were  ware 


That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with 
stately  forms, 

Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a 
dream  — by  these 

Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold: 
and  from  them  rose 

A cry  that  shiver’d  to  the  tingling 
stars, 

And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 

Of  lamentation,  like  a wind  that 
shrills 

All  night  in  a waste  land,  where  no 
one  comes, 

Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of 
the  world. 

Then  murmur’d  Arthur,  “Place  me 
in  the  barge.” 

So  to  the  barge  they  came.  There 
those  three  Queens 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the 
King,  and  wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them 
all 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her 
lap, 

And  loosed  the  shatter’d  casque,  and 
chafed  his  hands, 

And  call’d  him  by  his  name,  complain- 
ing loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a 
brow 

Striped  with  dark  blood  : for  all  his 
face  was  white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither’d 
moon 

Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the 
springing  east ; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash’d 
with  drops 

Of  onset ; and  the  light  and  lustrous 
curls  — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a rising 
sun 

High  from  the  da'is-throne  — were 
parch’d  with  dust , 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging 
loose, 

Mix’d  with  the  knightly  growth  that 
fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a shatter’d  column  lay  the 
King ; 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


377 


Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 
in  rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a star  of  tourna- 
ment, 

Shot  thro’  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 
charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir 
Bedivere  : 

“ Ah  ! my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 
I go  ? 

Where  shall  I hide  my  forehead  and 
my  eyes  ? 

For  nowl  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 

When  every  morning  brought  a noble 
chance, 

And  every  chance  brought  out  a noble 
knight. 

Such  times  have  been  not  since  the 
light  that  led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of 
myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is 
dissolved 

Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 
world, 

And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companion- 
less, 

And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and 
the  years, 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 
minds.” 

And  slowly  answer’d  Arthur  from 
the  barge : 

“The  old  order  changeth,  yielding 
place  to  new, 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 
the  world. 

Comfort  thyself : what  comf  ortis  in  me? 

I have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which 
I have  done 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure  ! 
but  thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face 
again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are 
wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.  Where- 
fore, let  thy  voice 


Rise  like  a fountain  for  me  night  and 
day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep 
or  goats 

That  nourish  a blind  life  within  the 
brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 
of  prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who 
call  them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 
way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet 
of  God. 

But  now  farewell.  I am  going  a long 
way 

With  these  thou  seest  — if  indeed  I go 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 
doubt)  — 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 
snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it 
lies 

Deep-meadow’d,  happy,  fair  with  or- 
chard lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown’d  with 
summer  sea, 

Where  I will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound.” 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 
and  sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a wild  carol  ere  her  death, 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

Look’d  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn, 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

But  when  that  moan  had  past  for 
evermore, 

The  stillness  of  the  dead  world’s  win- 
ter dawn 

Amazed  him,  and  he  groan’d,  “The 
King  is  gone.” 


378 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 


And  therewithal  came  on  him  the  weird 
rhyme, 

“From  the  great  deep  to  the  great 
deep  he  goes.” 

Whereat  he  slowly  turn’d  and  slowly 
clomb 

The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron 
crag ; 

Thence  mark’d  the  black  hull  moving 
yet,  and  cried, 

“ He  passes  to  be  King  among  the 
dead, 

And  after  healing  of  his  grievous 
wound 

He  comes  again ; but  — if  he  come  no 
more  — 

O me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon 
black  boat, 

Who  shriek’d  and  wail’d,  the  three 
whereat  we  gazed 

On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with 
living  light, 

They  stood  before  his  throne  in  si- 
lence, friends 


Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 
need  ? ” 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem’d  there 
came,  but  faint 

As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 

Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a great  cry, 

Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one 
voice 

Around  a king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about, 
and  clomb 

Ev’n  to  the  highest  he  could  climb, 
and  saw, 

Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of 
hand, 

Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that 
bare  the  King, 

Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the 
deep 

Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on, 
and  go 

From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 

And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new 
year. 


TO  THE 

O loyal  to  the  royal  in  thyself, 

And  loyal  to  thy  land,  as  this  to 
thee 

Bear  witness,  that  rememberable  day, 

When,  pale  as  yet,  and  fever-worn,  the 
Prince 

Who  scarce  had  pluck’d  his  flickering 
life  again 

From  halfway  down  the  shadow  of 
the  grave, 

Past  with  thee  thro’  thy  people  and 
their  love, 

And  London  roll’d  one  tide  of  joy 
thro’  all 

Her  trebled  millions,  and  loud  leagues 
of  man 

And  welcome  ! witness,  too,  the  silent 
cry, 

The  prayer  of  many  a race  and  creed, 
and  clime  — 

Thunderless  lightnings  striking  under 
sea 


QUEEN. 

From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy 
realm, 

And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  lately 
heard 

A strain  to  shame  us  “ keep  you  to 
yourselves; 

So  loyal  is  too  costly ! friends  — your 
love 

Is  but  a burthen  : loose  the  bond,  and 
go.” 

Is  this  the  tone  of  empire  ? here  the 
faith 

That  made  us  rulers  % this,  indeed, 
her  voice 

And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hou- 
goumont 

Left  mightiest  of  all  peoples  under 
heaven  ? 

What  shock  has  fool’d  her  since,  that 
she  should  speak 

So  feebly  ? wealthier  — wealthier  — 
hour  by  hour ! 


TO  THE  QUEEN \ 


379 


The  voice  of  Britain,  or  a sinking  land, 

Some  third-rate  isle  half-lost  among 
her  seas  ? 

There  rang  her  voice,  when  the  full 
city  peal’d 

Thee  and  thy  Prince ! The  loyal  to 
their  crown 

Are  loyal  to  their  own  far  sons,  who 
love 

Our  ocean-empire  with  her  boundless 
homes 

For  ever-broadening  England,  and  her 
throne 

In  our  vast  Orient,  and  one  isle,  one 
isle, 

That  knows  not  her  own  greatness  : if 
she  knows 

And  dreads  it  we  are  fall’n. But 

thou,  my  Queen, 

Not  for  itself,  but  thro’  thy  living  love 

For  one  to  whom  I made  it  o’er  his 
grave 

Sacred,  accept  this  old  imperfect  tale, 

New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war 
with  Soul 

Bather  than  that  gray  king,  whose 
name,  a ghost, 

Streams  like  a cloud,  man-shaped, 
from  mountain  peak, 

And  cleaves  to  cairn  and  cromlech 
still ; or  him 

Of  Geoffrey’s  book,  or  him  of  Malle- 
or’s,  one 

Touch’d  by  the  adulterous  finger  of  a 
time 

That  hover’d  between  war  and  wan- 
tonness, 

And  crownings  and  dethronements : 
take  withal 


Thy  poet’s  blessing,  and  his  trust  that 
Heaven 

Will  blow  the  tempest  in  the  distance 
back 

From  thine  and  ours : for  some  are 
scared,  who  mark, 

Or  wisely  or  unwisely,  signs  of  storm, 

Waverings  of  every  vane  with  every 
wind, 

And  wordy  trucklings  to  the  transient 
hour, 

And  fierce  or  careless  looseners  of  the 
faith, 

And  Softness  breeding  scorn  of  simple 
life, 

Or  Cowardice,  the  child  of  lust  for  gold, 

Or  Labor,  with  a groan  and  not  a voice, 

Or  Art  with  poisonous  honey  stol’n 
from  France, 

And  that  which  knows,  but  careful  for 
itself, 

And  that  which  knows  not,  ruling  that 
which  knows 

To  its  own  harm : the  goal  of  this 
great  world 

Lies  beyond  sight : yet  — if  our  slowly- 
grown 

And  crown’d  Republic’s  crowning 
common-sense, 

That  saved  her  many  times,  not  fail  — 
their  fears 

Are  morning  shadows  huger  than  the 
shapes 

That  cast  them,  not  those  gloomier 
which  forego 

The  darkness  of  that  battle  in  the 
, West, 

Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies 
away. 


THE  PRINCESS; 


A MEDLEY. 


PROLOGUE. 

Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a summer’s 
day 

Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of 
sun 

Up  to  the  people : thither  flock’d  at 
noon 

His  tenants,  wife  and  child,  and 
thither  half 

The  neighboring  borough  with  their 
Institute 

Of  which  he  was  the  patron.  I was 
there 

From  college,  visiting  the  son,  — the 
son 

A Walter  too, — with  others  of  our 
set, 

Five  others  : we  were  seven  at  Vivian- 
place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter 
show’d  the  house, 

Greek,  set  with  busts : from  vases  in 
the  hall 

Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier 
than  their  names, 

Grew  side  by  side ; and  on  the  pave- 
ment lay 

Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the 
park, 

Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones 
of  Time ; 

And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and 
age 

Jumbled  together ; celts  and  calumets, 

Claymore  and  snowshoe,  toys  in  lava, 
fans 

Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries, 


Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in 
sphere, 

The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and 
battle-clubs 

From  the  isles  of  palm  : and  higher  on 
the  walls, 

Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk 
and  deer, 

His  own  forefathers’  arms  and  armor 
hung. 

And  “this  ” he  said  “ was  Hugh’s  at 
Agincourt ; 

And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph’s  at  As- 
calon : 

A good  knight  he ! we  keep  a chronicle 

With  all  about  him”  — which  he 
brought,  and  I 

Dived  in  a hoard  of  tales  that  dealt 
with  knights, 

Half-legend,  half-historic,  counts  and 
kings 

Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills 
and  died ; 

And  mixt  with  these,  a lady,  one  that 
arm’d 

Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro’ 
the  gate, 

Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 
her  walls. 

“ O miracle  of  women,”  said  the 
book, 

“O  noble  heart  who,  being  strait- 
besieged 

By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his 
wish, 

Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn’d  a 
soldier’s  death, 


382 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem’d 
as  lost  — 

Her  stature  more  than  mortal  in  the 
burst 

Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on 
fire  — 

Brake  with  a blast  of  trumpets  from 
the  gate, 

And,  falling  on  them  like  a thunder- 
bolt, 

She  trampled  some  beneath  her 
horses’  heels, 

And  some  were  whelm’d  with  missiles 
of  the  wall, 

And  some  were  push’d  with  lances 
from  the  rock, 

And  part  were  drown’d  within  the 
wnirling  brook : 

O miracle  of  noble  womanhood ! ” 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chroni- 
cle ; 

And,  I all  rapt  in  this,  “ Come  out,” 
he  shid, 

“ To  the  Abbey : there  is  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth 

And  sister  Lilia  writh  the  rest.”  We 
went 

(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger 
in  it) 

Down  thro’  the  park  : strange  was  the 
sight  to  me  ; 

For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur’d, 
sown 

With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 

There  moved  the  multitude,  a thou- 
sand heads : 

The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 

Taught  them  with  facts.  One  rear’d 
a font  of  stone 

And  drew,  from  butts  of  water  on  the 
slope, 

The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing, 
now 

A twisted  snake,  and  now  a rain  of 
pearls, 

Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded 
ball 

Danced  like  a wisp : and  somewhat 
lower  down 

A man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials 
fired 


A cannon : Echo  answer’d  in  her  sleep 

From  hollow  fields  : and  here  were 
telescopes 

For  azure  views ; and  there  a group 
of  girls 

In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric 
shock 

Dislink’ d with  shrieks  and  laughter  : 
round  the  lake 

A little  clock-work  steamer  paddling 
plied 

And  shook  the  lilies  : perch’d  about 
the  knolls 

A dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam  : 

A petty  railway  ran  : a fire-balloon 

Rose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky 
groves 

And  dropt  a fairy  parachute  and 
past : 

And  there  thro’  twenty  posts  of  tele- 
graph 

They  flash’d  a saucy  message  to  and 
fro 

Between  the  mimic  stations ; so  that 
sport 

Went  hand  in  hand  with  Science; 
otherwhere 

Pure  sport:  a herd  of  boys  with 
clamor  bowl’d 

And  stump’d  the  wicket ; babies  roll’d 
about 

Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass ; and  men 
and  maids 

Arranged  a country  dance,  and  flew 
thro’  light 

And  shadow,  while  the  twangling 
violin 

Struck  up  with  Soldier-laddie,  and 
overhead 

The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty 
lime 

Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from 
end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking 
of  the  time ; 

And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at 
length 

Came  to  the  ruins.  High-arch’d  and 
ivy-claspt, 

Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a 
fire. 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY \ 


383 


Thro’  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and 
frost  they  gave 

The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house ; but 
all  within 

The  sward  was  trim  as  any  garden 
lawn : 

And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 

And  Xilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady 
friends 

From  neighbor  seats  : and  there  was 
Ralph  himself, 

A broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall, 

As  gay  as  any.  Lilia,  wild  with  sport, 

Half  child  half  woman  as  she  was, 
had  wound 

A scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony 
helm, 

And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a rosy  silk, 

That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his 
ivied  nook 

Glow  like  a sunbeam  : near  his  tomb 
a feast 

Shone,  silver-set ; about  it  lay  the 
guests, 

And  there  we  join’d  them : then  the 
maiden  Aunt 

Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from 
it  preach’d 

An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd, 

And  all  things  great;  but  we,  un- 
worthier,  told 

Of  college : he  had  climb’d  across  the 
spikes, 

And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt 
the  bars, 

And  he  had  breath’d  the  Proctor’s 
dogs ; and  one 

Discuss’d  his  tutor,  rough'  to  common 
men, 

But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a lord ; 

And  one  the  Master,  as  a rogue  in 
grain 

Veneer’d  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk’d,  above  their 
heads  I saw 

The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad;  which 
brought 

My  book  to  mind : and  opening  this  I 
read 

Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a page  or  two  that 
rang 


With  tilt  and  tourney ; then  the  tale 
of  her 

That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter 
from  her  walls, 

And  much  I praised  her  nobleness, 
and  “ Where,” 

Ask’d  Walter,  patting  Lilia’s  head 
(she  lay 

Beside  him)  “ lives  there  such  a 
woman  now  'l  ” 

Quick  answer’d  Lilia  “ There  are 
thousands  now 

Such  women,  but  convention  beats 
them  down : 

It  is  but  bringing  up ; no  more  than 
that : 

You  men  have  done  it:  how  I hate 
you  all ! 

Ah,  were  I something  great ! I wish  I 
were 

Some  mighty  poetess,  I would  shame 
you  then, 

That  love  to  keep  us  children!  O I 
wish 

That  I were  some  great  princess,  I 
would  build 

Ear  off  from  men  a college  like  a 
man’s, 

And  I would  teach  them  all  that  men 
are  taught ; 

We  are  twice  as  quick!”  And  here 
she  shook  aside 

The  hand  that  play’d  the  patron  with 
her  curls. 


And  one  said  smiling  “ Pretty  were 
the  sight 

If  our  old  halls  could  change  their 
sex,  and  flaunt 

With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers 
for  deans, 

And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their 
golden  hair. 

I think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty 
gowns, 

But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths, 
or  Ralph 

Who  shines  so  in  the  corner;  yet  I 
fear, 

If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood. 


384 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


However  deep  you  might  embower  the 
nest, 

Some  boy  would  spy  it.” 

At  this  upon  the  sward 

She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal’d  foot : 

“That’s  your  light  way;  but  I would 
make  it  death 

For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us.” 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself 
she  laugh’d ; 

A rosebud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns, 

And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make 
her,  she : 

But  Walter  hail’d  a score  of  names 
upon  her, 

And  “ petty  Ogress,”  and  “ ungrateful 
Puss,” 

And  swore  he  long’d  at  college, 
only  long’d, 

All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 

They  boated  and  they  cricketed ; they 
talk’d 

At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics ; 

They  lost  their  weeks ; they  vext  the 
souls  of  deans ; 

They  rode  ; they  betted ; made  a hun- 
dred friends, 

And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying 
terms, 

But  miss’d  the  mignonette  of  Vivian- 
place, 

The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.  Thus 
he  spoke, 

Part  banter,  part  affection. 

“ True,”  she  said, 

“We  doubt  not  that.  O yes,  you 
miss’d  us  much. 

I’ll  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you 
did.” 

She  held  it  out;  and  as  a parrot 
turns 

Up  thro’  gilt  wires  a crafty  loving  eye, 

And  takes  a lady’s  finger  with  all  care, 

And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for 
harm, 

So  he  with  Lilia’s.  Daintily  she 
shriek’d 

And  wrung  it.  “ Doubt  my  word 
again ! ” he  said. 


“ Come,  listen ! here  is  proof  that  you 
were  miss’d : 

We  seven  stay’d  at  Christmas  up  to 
read ; 

And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to 
read : 

The  hard-grain’d  Muses  of  the  cube 
and  square 

Were  out  of  season:  never  man,  I 
think, 

So  moulder’d  in  a sinecure  as 
he : 

For  while  our  cloisters  echo’d  frosty 
feet, 

And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare 
as  brooms, 

We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you 
all 

In  wassail ; often,  like  as  many  girls  — 

Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of 
home  — 

As  many  little  trifling  Lilias  — play’d 

Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas 
here, 

And  what’s  my  thought  and  when  and 
where  and  how, 

And  often  told  a tale  from  mouth  to 
mouth 

As  here  at  Christmas.” 

She  remember’d  that : 

A pleasant  game,  she  thought:  she 
liked  it  more 

Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the 
rest. 

But  these  — what  kind  of  tales  did 
men  tell  men, 

She  wonder’d  by  themselves  ? 

A half-disdain 

Perch’d  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her 
lips : 

And  Walter  nodded  at  me ; “ He 
began, 

The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn ; 
and  so 

We  forged  a sevenfold  story.  Kind  ? 
what  kind  ? 

Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmas  sole- 
cisms, 

Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to 
kill 

Time  by  the  fire  in  winter.” 

“ Kill  him  now, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


385 


The  tyrant ! kill  him  in  the  summer 
too,” 

Said  Lilia ; “ Why  not  now  ? ” the 
maiden  Aunt. 

“ Why  not  a summer’s  as  a winter’s 
tale  ? 

A tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time, 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the 
place, 

Heroic,  for  a hero  lies  beneath, 

Grave,  solemn ! ” 

AValter  warp’d  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I 
laugh’d 

And  Lilia  woke  with  sudden-shrilling 
mirth 

An  echo  like  a ghostly  woodpecker, 
Hid  in  the  ruins ; till  the  maiden 
Aunt 

(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch’d 
her  face 

With  color)  turn’d  to  me  with  “As 
you  will ; 

Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will, 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will.” 

“Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine” 
clamor’d  he, 

“ And  make  her  some  great  Princess, 
six  feet  high, 

Grand,  epic,  homicidal ; and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her  ! ” 

“ Then  follow  me,  the  Prince,” 
I answer’d,  “ each  be  hero  in  his  turn  ! 
Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a 
dream.  — 

Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  re- 
quired— 

But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time 
and  place, 

A Gothic  ruin  and  a Grecian  house, 

A talk  of  college  and  of  ladies’  rights, 
A feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade, 
And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  ex- 
periments 

For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had 
burnt  them  all  — 

This  were  a medley ! we  should  have 
him  back 

Who  told  the  ‘ Winter’s  tale  ’ to  do  it 
for  us. 


No  matter : we  will  say  whatever 
comes. 

And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 

From  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a 
song 

To  give  us  breathing-space.” 

So  I began, 

And  the  rest  follow’d : and  the  women 
sang 

Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the 
men, 

Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind 

And  here  I give  the  story  and  the 
songs. 

A prince  I was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in 
face, 

Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of 
May, 

With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a 
girl, 

For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern 
star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in 
our  house. 

Some  sorcerer,  whom  a far-off  grand- 
sire  burnt 

Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  fore- 
told, 

Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood 
should  know 

The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and 
that  one 

Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows 
and  to  fall. 

For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 

And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more 
or  less, 

An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the 
house. 

Myself  too  had  weird  seizures,  Heaven 
knows  what : 

On  a sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and 
day, 

And  while  I walk’d  and  talk’d  as  here- 
tofore, 

I seem’d  to  move  among  a world  of 
ghosts, 

And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a 
dream. 


^ 386 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt- 
head  cane, 

And  paw’d  his  heard,  and  mutter’d 
“catalepsy.” 

My  mother  pitying  made  a thousand 
prayers ; 

My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint, 

Half-canonized  by  all  that  look’d  on 
her, 

So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tender- 
ness: 

But  my  good  father  thought  a king  a 
king ; 

He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the 
house ; 

He  held  his  sceptre  like ' a pedant’s 
wand 

To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms 
and  hands 

Reach’d  out,  and  pick’d  offenders 
from  the  mass 

For  judgment. 

Now  it  chanced  that  I had  been, 

While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade, 
betroth’d 

To  one,  a neighboring  Princess  : she 
to  me 

Was  proxy-wedded  with  a bootless  calf 

At  eight  years  old ; and  still  from 
time  to  time 

Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from 
the  South, 

And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puis- 
sance ; 

And  still  I wore  her  picture  by  my 
heart, 

And  one  dark  tress ; and  all  around 
them  both 

Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees 
about  their  queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that 
I should  wed, 

My  father  sent  ambassadors  with 
furs 

And  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her : these 
brought  back 

A present,  a great  labor  of  the  loom ; 

And  therewithal  an  answer  vague  as 
wind : 

Besides,  they  saw  the  king;  he  took 
the  gifts ; 


He  said  there  was  a compact;  that 
was  true : 

But  then  she  had  a will;  was  he  to 
blame  ? 

And  maiden  fancies ; loved  to  live 
alone 

Among  her  women ; certain,  would 
not  wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room 
I stood 

With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  my  two 
friends : 

The  first,  a gentleman  of  broken  means 

(His  father’s  fault)  but  given  to  starts 
and  bursts 

Of  revel ; and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 

And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we 
moved 

Together,  twinn’d  as  horse’s  ear  and 
eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,  I saw  my 
father’s  face 

Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a rising 
moon, 

Inflamed  with  wrath : he  started  on 
his  feet, 

Tore  the  king’s  letter,  snow’d  it  down, 
and  rent 

The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro’  warp 
and  woof 

From  skirt  to  skirt ; and  at  the  last 
he  sware 

That  he  would  send  a hundred  thou- 
sand men, 

And  bring  her  in  a whirlwind : then 
he  chew’d 

The  thrice-turn’d  cud  of  wrath,  and 
cook’d  his  spleen, 

Communing  with  his  captains  of  the 
war. 

At  last  I spoke.  “ My  father,  let  me 
go. 

It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 

In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a king, 

Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hos- 
pitable : 

Or,  maybe,  I myself,  my  bride  once 
seen, 

Whate’er  my  grief  to  find  her  less 
than  fame, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


387 


May  rue  the  bargain  made.”  And 
Florian  said  : 

“ I have  a sister  at  the  foreign  court, 

Who  moves  about  the  Princess ; she, 
you  know, 

Who  wedded  with  a nobleman  from 
thence : 

He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I hear, 

The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land  : 

Thro’  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted 
clean.” 

And  Cyril  whisper’d : “ Take  me  with 
you  too.” 

Then  laughing  “ what,  if  these  weird 
seizures  come 

Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one 
near 

To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the 
truth ! 

Take  me  : I’ll  serve  you  better  in  a 
strait ; 

I grate  on  rusty  hinges  here : ” but 
“ No ! ” 

Roar’d  the  rough  king,  “you  shall  not ; 
we  ourself 

Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies 
dead 

In  iron  gauntlets : break  the  council 
up.” 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I rose 
and  past 

Thro’  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about 
the  town ; 

Pound  a still  place,  and  pluck’d  her 
likeness  out; 

Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch’d  it 
lying  bathed 

In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell’d 
trees  : 

What  were  those  fancies  ? wherefore 
break  her  troth  1 

Proud  look’d  the  lips : but  while  I 
meditated 

A wind  arose  and  rush’d  upon  the 
South, 

And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers, 
and  the  shrieks 

Of  the  wild  woods  together;  and  a 
Voice 

Went  with  it,  “Follow,  follow,  thou 
shalt  win.” 


Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that 
month 

Became  her  golden  shield,  I stole  from 
court 

With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  unper- 
ceived, 

Cat-footed  thro’  the  town  and  half  in . 
dread 

To  hear  my  father’s  clamor  at  our 
backs 

With  Ho ! from  some  bay-window 
shake  the  night ; 

But  all  was  quiet : from  the  bastion’d 
walls 

Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we 
dropt, 

And  flying  reach’d  the  frontier : then 
we  crost 

To  a livelier  land ; and  so  by  tilth 
and  grange, 

And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wil- 
derness, 

We  gain’d  the  mother-city  thick  with 
towers, 

And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the 
king. 

His  name  was  Gama;  crack’d  and 
small  his  voice, 

But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a wrin- 
kling wind 

On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in 
lines ; 

A little  dry  old  man,  without  a star, 

Not  like  a king : three  days  he  feasted 
us, 

And  on  the  fourth  I spake  of  why  we 
came, 

And  my  betroth’d.  “You  do  us, 
Prince,”  he  said, 

Airing  a snowy  hand  and  signet 
gem, 

“ All  honor.  We  remember  love  our- 
selves 

In  our  sweet  youth : there  did  a com- 
pact pass 

Long  summers  back,  a kind  of  cere- 
mony — 

I think  the  year  in  which  our  olives 
fail’d. 

I would  you  had  her,  prince,  with  all 
my  heart, 


388 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


With  my  full  heart:  but  there  were 
widows  here. 

Two  widows,  Lady  Psyche,  Lady 
Blanche ; 

They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of 
place 

Maintaining  that  with  equal  hus- 
bandry 

The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 

They  harp’d  on  this;  with  this  our 
banquets  rang ; 

Our  dances  broke  and  buzz’d  in  knots 
of  talk ; 

Nothing  but  this ; my  very  ears  were  hot 

To  hear  them : knowledge,  so  my 
daughter  held, 

Was  all  in  all : they  had  but  been,  she 
thought, 

As  children  ; they  must  lose  the  child, 
assume 

The  woman  : then,  Sir,  awful  odes  she 
wrote, 

Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated 
of, 

But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful ; 
odes 

About  this  losing  of  the  child;  and 
rhymes 

And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 

Beyond  all  reason : these  the  women 
sang; 

And  they  that  know  such  things  — I 
sought  but  peace ; 

No  critic  I — would  call  them  master- 
pieces : 

They  master’d  me.  At  last  she  begg’d 
a boon, 

A certain  summer-palace  which  I 
have 

Hard  by  your  father’s  frontier  : I said 
no, 

Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it:  and 
there, 

All  wild  to  found  an  University 

For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled; 
and  more 

We  know  not,  — only  this:  they  see 
no  men, 

Not  ev’n  her  brother  Arac,nor  the  twins 

Her  brethren,  tho’  they  love  her,  look 
upon  her 

As  on  a kind  of  paragon ; and  I 


(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loth 
to  breed 

Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine  : but 
since 

(And  I confess  with  right)  you  think 
me  bound 

In  some  sort,  I can  give  you  letters  to 
her ; 

And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I rate 
your  chance 

Almost  as  naked  nothing.” 

Thus  the  king ; 

And  I,  tho’  nettled  that  he  seem’d  to 
slur 

With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courte- 
sies 

Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all 
frets 

But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my 
bride) 

Went  forth  again  with  both  my 
friends.  We  rode 

Many  a long  league  back  to  the  North. 
At  last 

From  hills,  that  look’d  across  a land 
of  hope, 

We  dropt  with  evening  on  a rustic 
town 

Set  in  a gleaming  river’s  crescent- 
curve, 

Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties ; 

There,  enter’d  an  old  hostel,  call’d 
mine  host 

To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest 
wines, 

And  show’d  the  late-writ  letters  of 
the  king. 

He  with  a long  low  sibilation,  stared 

As  blank  as  death  in  marble ; then  ex- 
claim’d 

Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 

For  any  man  to  go  : but  as  his  brain 

Began  to  mellow,  “ If  ‘the  king,”  he 
said, 

“ Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound 
to  speak  h 

The  king  would  bear  him  out ; ” and 
at  the  last  — 

The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  his 
veins  — 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


389 


“ No  doubt  that  we  might  make  it 
worth  his  while. 

She  once  had  passed  that  way ; he 
heard  her  speak ; 

She  scared* him;  life!  he  never  saw 
the  like ; 

She  look’d  as  grand  as  doomsday  and 
as  grave  : 

And  he,  he  reverenced  his  liege-lady 
there ; 

He  always  made  a point  to  post  with 
mares  ; 

His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were 
the  boys : 

The  land,  he  understood,  for  miles 
about 

Was  till’d  by  women;  all  the  swine 
were  sows, 

And  all  the  dogs”  — 

But  while  he  jested  thus, 

A thought  flash’d  thro’  me  which  I 
clothed  in  act, 

Remembering  how  we  three  presented 
Maid 

Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide 
of  feast, 

In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father’s 
court. 

We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female 
gear ; 

He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a sight  to 
shake 

The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter, 
holp 

To  lace  us  up,  till,  each,  in  maiden 
plumes 

We  rustled:  him  we  gave  a costly 
bribe 

To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good 
steeds, 

And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 


We  follow’d  up  the  river  as  we 
rode, 

And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  col- 
lege lights 

Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 

And  linden  alley  : then  we  past  an 
arch, 

Whereon  a woman-statue  rose  with 
wings 


From  four  wing’d  horses  dark  against 
the  stars ; 

And  some  inscription  ran  along  the 
front, 

But  deep  in  shadow : further  on 

we  gain’d 

A little  street  half  garden  and  half 
house; 

But  scarce  could  hear  each  other 
speak  for  noise 

Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  ham- 
mers falling 

On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and 
stir 

Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  shower- 
ing down 

In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the 
rose : 

And  all  about  us  peal’d  the  nightin- 
gale, 

Rapt  in  her  song,  and  careless  of  the 
snare. 

There  stood  a bust  of  Pallas  for  a 
sign, 

By  two  sphere  lamps  blazon’d  like 
Heaven  and  Earth 

With  constellation  and  with  con- 
tinent, 

Above  an  entry : riding  in,  we  call’d ; 

A plump-arm’d  Ostleress  and  a stable 
wench 

Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help’d 
us  down. 

Then  stept  a buxon  hostess  forth, 
and  sail’d, 

Full-blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which 
gave 

Upon  a pillar’d  porch,  the  bases  lost 

In  laurel : her  we  ask’d  of  that  and 
this, 

And  who  were  tutors.  “ Lady 
Blanche,”  she  said, 

“ And  Lady  Psyche.”  “ Which  was 
prettiest, 

Best-natured  % ” “ Lady  Psyche.” 

“ Hers  are  we,” 

One  voice,  we  cried ; and  I sat  down 
and  wrote, 

In  such  a hand  as  when  a field  of  corn 

Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring 
East; 


390 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


“Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire 
pray 

Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with 
your  own, 

As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils.” 

This  I seal’d : 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a scroll, 
And  o’er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung, 
And  rais’d  the  blinding  bandage  from 
his  eyes : 

I gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn  ; 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I 
seem’d 

To  float  about  a glimmering  night, 
and  watch 

A full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moon- 
light, swell 

On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it 
was  rich. 

ii. 

As  thro’  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck’d  the  ripen’d  ears, 

We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 

O we  fell  out  I know  not  why, 

And  kiss’d  again  with  tears. 

And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 
That  all  the  more  endears, 

When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 
And  kiss  again  with  tears ! 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 
We  lost  in  other  years, 

There  above  the  little  grave, 

O there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss’d  again  with  tears. 

At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress 
came : 

She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a silken  hood  to  each, 
And  zoned  with  gold ; and  now  when 
these  were  on, 

And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk 
cocoons, 

She,  courtesying  her  obeisance,  let  us 
know 

The  Princess  Ida  waited  : out  we  paced, 
I first,  and  following  thro’  the  porch 
that  sang 

All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a court 
Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss’d  with 
lengths 

Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings 
gay 

Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great 
urns  of  flowers. 


The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group’d  in 
threes, 

Enring’d  a billowing  fountain  in  the 
midst ; 

And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges 
lay 

Or  book  or  lute  ; but  hastily  we  past, 

And  up  a flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a board  by  tome  and  paper 
sat, 

With  two  tame  leopards  couch’d  be- 
side her  throne 

All  beauty  compass’d  in  a female  form, 

The  Princess ; liker  to  the  inhabitant 

Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the 
Sun, 

Than  our  man’s  earth ; such  eyes  were 
in  her  head, 

And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breath- 
ing down 

From  over  her  arch’d  brows,  with 
every  turn 

Lived  thro’  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long 
hands, 

And  to  her  feet.  She  rose  her  height, 
and  said  : 

“We  give  you  welcome:  not  with- 
out redound 

Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye 
come, 

The  first-fruits  of  the  stranger : after- 
time, 

And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round 
the  grave, 

Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with 
me. 

What ! are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so 
tall  ? ” 

“ We  of  the  court  ” said  Cyril.  “From 
the  court  ” 

She  answer’d,  “then  ye  know  the 
Prince  ? ” and  he  : 

“ The  climax  of  his  age  ! as  tho'  there 
were 

One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  High- 
ness that, 

He  worships  your  ideal : ” she  replied : 

“ We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall 
to  hear 


She  rose  her  height,  and  said, 

* We  give  you  welcome.’  ” 

Page  390. 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


391 


This  barren  verbiage,  current  among 
men, 

Light  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compli- 
ment. 

Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless 
wilds  would  seem 

As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of 
power ; 

Your  language  proves  you  still  the 
child.  Indeed, 

We  dream  not  of  him : when  we  set 
our  hand 

To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with 
ourself 

Never  to  wed.  You  likewise  will  do 
well, 

Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and 
fling 

The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of 
men,  that  so, 

Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 

You  may  with  those  self-styled  our 
lords  ally 

Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,  scale 
with  scale.” 

At  those  high  words,  we  conscious 
of  ourselves, 

Perused  the  matting ; then  an  officer 

Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such 
as  these : 

Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with 
home ; 

Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liber- 
ties ; 

Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any 
men ; 

And  many  more,  which  hastily  sub- 
scribed, 

We  enter’d  on  the  boards  : and  “ Now,” 
she  cried, 

“ Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not. 
Look,  our  hall ! 

Our  statues  ! — not  of  those  that  men 
desire, 

Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode, 

Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East; 
but  she 

That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule, 
and  she 

The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 

The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war, 


The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 
Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyrene 
That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman 
brows 

Of  Agrippina.  Dwell  with  these,  and 
lose 

Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble 
forms 

Makes  noble  thro’  the  sensuous  organ- 
ism 

That  which  is  higher.  O lift  your 
natures  up : 

Embrace  our  aims : work  out  your 
freedom.  Girls, 

Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a fountain 
seal’d : 

Drink  deep,  until  the  habits  of  the 
slave, 

The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and 
spite 

And  slander,  die.  Better  not  be  at  all 
Than  not  be  noble.  Leave  us : you 
may  go : 

To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 
The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before ; 
For  they  press  in  from  all  the  prov- 
inces, 

And  fill  the  hive.” 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal : back  again  we  crost  the 
court 

To  Lady  Psyche’s : as  we  enter’d  in, 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morn- 
ing doves 

That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the 
thatch, 

A patient  range  of  pupils  ; she  herself 
Erect  behind  a desk  of  satin-wood, 

A quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  fal- 
con-eyed, 

And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she 
look’d, 

Of  twenty  summers.  At  her  left,  a 
child, 

In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a 
star, 

Her  maiden  babe,  a double  April 
old, 

Agla'ia  slept.  We  sat:  the  Lady 
glanced : 

Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the 
dame 


392 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


That  whisper’d  “Asses’  ears,”  among 
the  sedge, 

“ My  sister.”  “ Comely,  too,  by  all 
that’s  fair,” 

Said  Cyril.  “ O hush,  hush ! ” and  she 
began. 

“ This  world  was  once  a fluid  haze 
of  light, 

Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry 
tides, 

And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling 
cast 

The  planets : then  the  monster,  then 
the  man ; 

Tattoo’d  or  woaded,  winter-clad  in 
skins, 

Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing 
down  his  mate ; 

As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and 
here 

Among  the  lowest.” 

Thereupon  she  took 

A bird’s-eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious 
past ; 

Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 

As  emblematic  of  a nobler  age ; 

Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke 
of  those 

That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucu- 
mo ; 

Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Ro- 
man lines 

Of  empire,  and  the  woman’s  state  in 
each, 

How  far  from  just;  till  w’arming  with 
her  theme 

She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  laws 
Salique 

And  little-footed  China,  touch’d  on 
Mahomet 

With  much  contempt,  and  came  to 
chivalry : 

When  some  respect,  however  slight, 
was  paid 

To  woman,  superstition  all  awry: 

However  then  commenced  the  dawn  : 
a beam 

Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a 
land 

Of  promise ; fruit  would  follow.  Deep, 
indeed, 


Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first 
had  dared 

To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and 
assert 

None  lordlier  than  themselves  but 
that  which  made 

Woman  and  man.  She  had  founded; 
they  must  build. 

Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men 
were  taught : 

Let  them  not  fear:  some  said  their 
heads  were  less : 

Some  men’s  were  small  ; not  they  the 
least  of  men ; 

For  often  fineness  compensated  size: 
Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand, 
and  grew 

With  using ; thence  the  man’s,  if  more 
was  more ; 

He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to 
be 

First  in  the  field:  some  ages  had  been 
lost ; 

But  woman  ripen’d  earlier,  and  her 
life 

Was  longer;  and  albeit  their  glorious 
names 

Were  fewer,  scatter’d  stars,  yet  since 
in  truth 

The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 
And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 
Nor  those  liorn-handed  breakers  of 
the  glebe, 

But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam  ; even  so 
With  woman:  and  in  arts  of  govern- 
ment 

Elizabeth  and  others ; arts  of  war 
The  peasant  Joan  and  others  ; arts  of 
grace 

Sappho  and  others  vied  with  ‘any  man  ; 
And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left 
her  place, 

And  bow’d  her  state  to  them,  that  they 
might  grow 

To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 
In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from 
the  blight 

Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn. 

At  last 

She  rose  upon  a wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future  ; “ everywhere 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


393 


Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the 
hearth, 

Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the 
world, 

Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life, 

Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound 
the  abyss 

Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the 
mind : 

Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  critic, 
more  : 

And  everywhere  the  broad  and  boun- 
teous Earth 

Should  bear  a double  growth  of  those 
rare  souls, 

Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the 
blood  of  the  world.” 


She  ended  here,  and  beckon’d  us : 
the  rest 

Parted ; and,  glowing  full-faced  wel- 
come, she 

Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving 
on 

In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a boat 

Tacks,  and  the  slacken’d  sail  flaps, 
all  her  voice 

Paltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat, 
she  cried 

“My  brother!”  “Well,  my  sister.” 
“ 0,”  she  said, 

“ What  do  you  here  ? and  in  this 
dress  % and  these  ? 

Why  who  are  these  'l  a wolf  within 
the  fold ! 

A pack  of  wolves  ! the  Lord  be  gra- 
cious to  me  ! 

A plot,  a plot,  a plot,  to  ruin  all ! ” 

“No  plot,  no  plot,”  he  answer’d. 
“ Wretched  boy, 

How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on 
the  gate, 

Let  no  man  enter  in  on  pain  of 

DEATH  % ” 

“ And  if  I had,”  he  answer’d,  “ who 
could  think 

The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 

0 sister,  Sirens  tho’  they  be,  were 
such 

As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of 
men  ? ” 


“ But  you  will  find  it  otherwise  ” she 
said. 

“You  jest . ill  jesting  with  edge-tools  ! 
my  vow 

Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O that  iron 
will, 

That  axelike  edge  unturnable,  our 
Head, 

The  Princess.”  “ Well  then,  Psyche, 
take  my  life, 

And  nail  me  like  a weasel  on  a grange 

Por  warning : bury  me  beside  the 
gate, 

And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones ; 

Here  lies  a brother  by  a sister  slain, 

All  for  the  common  good  of  womankind.” 

“Let me  die  too,”  said  Cyril,  “having 
seen 

And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche.” 

I struck  in : 

“ Albeit  so  mask’d,  Madam,  I love  the 
truth ; 

Receive  it;  and  in  me  behold  the 
Prince 

Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 

To  the  Lady  Ida : here,  for  here  she 
was, 

And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left)  I 
came.” 

“ O Sir,  O Prince,  I have  no  country  ; 
none ; 

If  any,  this  ; but  none.  Whate’er  I 
was 

Disrooted,  what  I am  is  grafted  here. 

Affianced,  Sir  ? love-whispers  may 
not  breathe 

Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how 
should  I, 

Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live : the 
thunder-bolt 

Hangs  silent ; but  prepare  : I speak  ; 
it  falls.” 

“ Yet  pause,”  I said  : “for  that  in- 
scription there, 

I think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 

Than  in  a clapper  clapping  in  a garth, 

To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit : if  more 
there  be, 

If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows  ? 
war ; 

Your  own  work  marr’d  : for  this  your 
Academe, 


394 


THE  PRINCESS ; A -MEDLEY. 


Whichever  side  he  Victor,  in  the  hal- 
loo 

Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and 
pass 

With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to 
gild 

A stormless  summer.”  “ Let  the 
Princess  judge 

Of  that  ” she  said  : “ farewell,  Sir  — 
and  to  you. 

I shudder  at  the  sequel,  hut  I go.” 

“ Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,”  I re- 
join’d, 

“ The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Flo- 
rian, 

Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father’s 
hall 

(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle 
brow 

Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 

As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  when  he 
fell, 

And  all  else  fled  : we  point  to  it,  and 
we  say, 

The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not 
cold, 

But  branches  current  yet  in  kindred 
veins.” 

“ Are  you  that  Psyche,”  Florian  add- 
ed : “ she 

With  whom  I sang  about  the  morning 
hills, 

Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the 
purple  fly, 

And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen  ? 
are  you 

That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throb- 
bing brow, 

To  smoothe  my  pillow,  mix  the  foam- 
ing draught 

Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and 
read 

My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams  1 
are  you 

That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in 
one  1 

You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are 
you  now  1 ” 

“ You  are  that  Psyche,”  Cyril  said, 
“ for  whom 

I would  be  that  for  ever  which  I seem, 


Woman,  if  I might  sit  beside  your  feet, 
And  glean  your  scatter’d  sapience.” 
Then  once  more, 
“ Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,”  1 began, 
“ That  on  her  bridal  morn  before  she 
past 

From  all  her  old  companions,  when 
the  king 

Kiss’d  her  pale  cheek,  declared  that 
ancient  ties 

Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  south- 
ern hills ; 

That  were  there  any  of  our  people 
there 

In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them  ? look ! for  such  are 
these  and  I.” 

“ Are  you  that  Psyche,”  Florian  ask’d, 
“ to  whom, 

In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded 
fawn 

Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  the 
well  ? 

The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your 
lap, 

And  sobb’d,  and  you  sobb’d  with  it, 
and  the  blood 

Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you 
wept. 

That  was  fawn’s  blood,  not  brother’s, 
yet  you  wept. 

O by  the  bright  head  of  my  little 
niece, 

You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are 
you  now  ? ” 

“You  are  that  Psyche,”  Cyril  said 
again, 

“ The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little 
maid, 

That  ever  crow’d  for  kisses.” 

“ Out  upon  it  S ” 
She  answer’d,  “ peace ! and  why  should 
I not  play 

The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 
Him  you  call  great : he  for  the  com- 
mon weal, 

The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 
As  I might  slay  this  child,  if  good 
need  were, 

Slew  both  his  sons : and  I,  shall  I,  on 
whom 


THE  PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 


395 


The  secular  emancipation  turns 

Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from 
right  to  save 

A prince,  a brother  ? a little  will  I 
yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well 
for  you. 

0 hard,  when  love  and  duty  clash  ! I 
fear 

My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleck- 
less ; yet  — 

Hear  my  conditions : promise  (other- 
wise 

You  perish)  as  you  came,  to  slip  away 

To-day,  to-morrow,  soon : it  shall  be 
said, 

These  women  were  too  barbarous, 
would  not  learn  ; 

They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed 
us : promise,  all.” 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised 
each ; and  she, 

Like  some  wild  creature  newly-caged, 
commenced 

A to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 

By  Florian ; holding  out  her  lily 
arms 

Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling 
faintly  said : 

“ I knew  you  at  the  first : tho’  you 
have  grown 

You  scarce  have  alter’d  : I am  sad  and 
glad 

To  see  you,  Florian.  I give  thee  to 
death,  , 

My  brother  ! it  was  duty  spoke,  not  I. 

My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon 
it. 

Our  mother,  is  she  well  ? ” 

With  that  she  kiss’d 

His  forehead,  then,  a moment  after, 
clung 

About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blos- 
som’d up 

From  out  a common  vein  of  memory 

Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of 
the  hearth, 

And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious 
dews 

Began  to  glisten  and  to  fall : and 
while 


They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came 
a voice, 

“ I brought  a message  here  from  Lady 
Blanche.” 

Back  started  she,  and  turning  round 
we  saw 

The  Lady  Blanche’s  daughter  where 
she  stood, 

Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock, 

A rosy  blonde,  and  in  a college  gown, 

That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 

(Her  mother’s  color)  with  her  lips 
apart, 

And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within 
her  eyes, 

As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and 
float 

In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning 
seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at 
the  door. 

Then  Lady  Psyche,  “ Ah  — Melissa  — 
you! 

You  heard  us?”  and  Melissa,  “O 
pardon  me 

I heard,  I could  not  help  it,  did  not 
wish : 

But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me 
not, 

Nor  think  I bear  that  heart  within  my 
breast, 

To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen  to 
death.” 

“ I trust  you,”  said  the  other,  “ for 
we  two 

Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm 
and  vine : 

But  yet  your  mother’s  jealous  tem- 
perament — 

Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest, 
drowse,  or  prove 

The  Dana'id  of  a leaky  vase,  for  fear 

This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I lose 

My  honor,  these  their  lives.”  “Ah, 
fear  me  not” 

Replied  Melissa ; “no  — I would  not 
tell, 

No,  not  for  all  Aspasia’s  cleverness, 

No,  not  to  answer,  Madam,  all  those 
hard  things 

That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon.” 


396 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


“ Be  it  so  ” the  other,  “ that  we  still 
may  lead 

The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in 
peace, 

For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet.” 
Said  Cyril,  “ Madam,  he  the  wisest 
man 

Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in 
halls 

Of  Lebanonian  cedar:  nor  should  you 
(Tho’  Madam  you  should  answer,  we 
would  ask) 

Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you 
came 

Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you, 
Myself  for  something  more.”  He  said 
not  what, 

But  “ Thanks,”  she  answer’d  “ Go  : 
we  have  been  too  long 
Together : keep  your  hoods  about  the 
face ; 

They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction 
here. 

Speak  little ; mix  not  with  the  rest ; 
and  hold 

Your  promise : all,  I trust,  may  yet 
be  well.” 

We  turn’d  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the 
child, 

And  held  her  round  the  knees  against 
his  waist, 

And  blew  the  swoll’n  cheek  of  a 
trumpeter, 

While  Psyche  watch’d  them,  smiling, 
and  the  child 

Push’d  her  flat  hand  against  his  face 
and  laugh’d ; 

And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  stroll’d 
For  half  the  day  thro’  stately  theatres 
Bench’d  crescent-wise.  In  each  we 
sat,  we  heard 

The  grave  Professor.  On  the  lecture 
slate 

The  circle  rounded  under  female 
hands 

With  flawless  demonstration : follow’d 
then 

A classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment, 
With  scraps  of  thundrous  Epic  lilted 
out 


By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 

And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  five- 
words-long 

That  on  the  stretch’d  forefinger  of  all 
Time 

Sparkle  for  ever : then  we  dipt  in  all 

That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state, 

The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 

The  morals,  something  of  the  frame, 
the  rock, 

The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell, 
the  flower, 

Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 

And  whatsoever  can  be  taught  and 
known ; 

Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken 
fence, 

And  glutted  all  night  long  breast- 
deep  in  corn, 

We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge, 
and  I spoke : 

“ Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well 
as  we.” 

“They  hunt  old  trails,”  said  Cyril, 
“ very  well ; 

But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  in- 
vent 1 ” 

“ Ungracious  ! ” answer’d  Florian  ; 
“ have  you  learnt 

No  more  from  Psyche’s  lecture,  you 
that  talk’d 

The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and 
almost  sad  1 ” 

“ 0 trash,”  he  said,  “ but  with  a ker- 
nel in  it. 

Should  I not  call  her  wise,  who  made 
me  wise  ? 

And  learnt  ? I learnt  more  from  her 
in  a flash, 

Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty 
hull, 

And  every  Muse  tumbled  a science  in. 

A thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these 
halls, 

And  round  these  halls  a thousand 
baby  loves 

Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  at  the 
hearts, 

Whence  follows  many  a vacant  pang ; 
but  O 

With  me,  Sir,  enter’d  in  the  bigger 
boy, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY \ 


397 


The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted 
firm, 

The  long-limb’d  lad  that  had  a Psyche 
too ; 

He  cleft  me  thro’  the  stomacher;  and 
now 

What  think  you  of  it,  Florian  ? do  I 
chase 

The  substance  or  the  shadow  1 will  it 
hold  ? 

I have  no  sorcerer’s  malison  on  me, 

No  ghostly  hauntings  like  his  High- 
ness. I 

Platter  myself  that  always  every- 
where 

I know  the  substance  when  I see  it. 
Well, 

Are  castles  shadows  ? Three  of  them  ? 
Is  she 

The  sweet  proprietress  a shadow  1 If 
not, 

Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my 
tatter’d  coat  ? 

For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my 
wants. 

And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart, 

And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double 
worth, 

And  much  I might  have  said,  but  that 
my  zone 

Unmann’d  me : then  the  Doctors  ! O 
to  hear 

The  Doctors  ! O to  watch  the  thirsty 
plants 

Imbibing ! once  or  twice  I thought  to 
roar, 

To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my 
mane  : but  thou, 

Modulate  me,  Soul  of  mincing  mim- 
icry ! 

Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon, 
my  throat ; 

Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to 
meet 

Star-sisters  answering  under  crescent 
brows  ; 

Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of 
man,  and  loose 

A flying  charm  of  blushes  o’er  this 
cheek, 

Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out 
of  time 


Will  wonder  why  they  came:  but 
hark  the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  ! ” 

And  in  we  stream’d 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and 
still 

By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end 
to  end 

With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown 
and  fair 

In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist, 
The  long  hall  glitter’d  like  a bed  of 
flowers. 

Hoyr  might  a man  not  wander  from 
his  wits 

Pierced  thro’  with  eyes,  but  that  I 
kept  mine  own 

Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in  glorious 
dreams, 

The  second-sight  of  some  Astraean  age, 
Sat  compass’d  with  professors : they, 
the  while, 

Discuss’d  a doubt  and  tost  it  to  and 
fro  : 

A clamor  thicken’d,  mixt  with  inmost 
terms 

Of  art  and  science:  Lady  Blanche 
alone 

Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  linea- 
ments, 

With  all  her  autumn  tresses  falsely 
brown, 

Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens : 
there 

One  walk’d  reciting  by  herself,  and 
one 

In  this  hand  held  a volume  as  to  read, 
And  smoothed  a petted  peacock  down 
with  that : 

Some  to  a low  song  oar’d  a shallop  by, 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow’d  from  the  heat : some 
hid  and  sought 

In  the  orange  thickets : others  tost  a 
ball 

Above  the  fountain- jets,  and  back 
again 

With  laughter : others  lay  about  the 
lawns, 


398 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 


Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur’d  that 
their  May 

Was  passing:  what  was  learning  unto 
them  ? 

They  wish’d  to  marry;  they  could 
rule  a house  ; 

Men  hated  learned  women : but  we 
three 

Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates ; and  often 
came 

Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 

Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity, 

That  harm’d  not : then  day  droopt ; 
the  chapel  bells 

Call’d  us : we  left  the  walks ; we  mixt 
with  those 

Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest 
white, 

Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall 
to  wall, 

While  the  great  organ  almost  burst 
his  pipes, 

Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro’ 
the  court 

A long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 

Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies, 

The  work  of  Ida,  to  call  down  from 
Heaven 

A blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world, 
in. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 

Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 

Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 

Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 
Blow  him  again  to  me; 

While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother’s  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 

Morn  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morn- 
ing star 

Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into 
gold. 


We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with 
care 

Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three 
parts 

In  shadow,  but  the  Muses’  heads  were 
touch’d 

Above  the  darkness  from  their  native 
East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount, 
and  watch’d 

Or  seem’d  to  watch  the  dancing  bub- 
ble, approach’d 

Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of 
sleep, 

Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy 
eyes 

The  circled  Iris  of  a night  of  tears ; 

“ And  fly,”  she  cried,  “ O fly,  while 
yet  you  may ! 

My  mother  knows : ” and  when  I 
ask’d  her  “ how,” 

“ My  fault,”  she  wept,  “my  fault ! and 
yet  not  mine ; 

Yet  mine  in  part.  O hear  me,  pardon 
me. 

My  mother,  ’tis  her  wont  from  night 
to  night 

To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 

She  says  the  Princess  should  have 
been  the  Head, 

Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two 
arms ; 

And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they 
came ; 

But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand 
now, 

And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom 
used ; 

Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all 
the  love. 

And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass 
you: 

Her  countrywomen  ! she  did  not  envy 
her. 

‘ Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians  ? 

Girls  ? — more  like  men ! ’ and  at  these 
words  the  snake, 

My  secret,  seem’d  to  stir  within  my 
breast ; 

And  oh,  Sirs,  could  I help  it,  but  my 
cheek 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


399 


Began  to  burn  and  burn,  and  her  lynx 
eye 

To  fix  and  make  me  hotter,  till  she 
laugh’d : 

* 0 marvellously  modest  maiden,  you ! 

Men!  girls,  like  men!  why,  if  they 
had  been  men 

You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in 
rubric:  thus 

For  wholesale  comment/  Pardon,  I 
am  shamed 

That  I must,  needs  repeat  for  my 
excuse 

What  looks  so  little  graceful : 4 men  ’ 
(for  still 

My  mother  went  revolving  on  the 
word) 

4 And  so  they  are,  — very  like  men 
indeed  — 

And  with  that  woman  closeted  for 
hours ! ’ 

Then  came  these  dreadful  words  out 
one  by  one, 

4 Why  — these  — are  — men : ’ I shud- 
der’d : 4 and  you  know  it/ 

40  ask  me  nothing,’  I said:  ‘And 

she  knows  too, 

And  she  conceals  it/  So  my  mother 
clutch’d 

The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word 
from  me ; 

And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to 
inform 

The  Princess : Lady  Psyche  will  be 
crush’d ; 

But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  there- 
fore fly : 

But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  you 
go.” 

44  What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a 
blush  ? ” 

Said  Cyril : 44  Pale  one,  blush  again : 
than  wear 

Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives 
away. 

Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more 
in  Heaven” 

He  added,  “lest  some  classic  Angel 
speak 

In  scorn  of  us,  4 They  mounted,  Gany- 
medes, 


To  tumble,  Vulcans,  on  the  second 
morn/ 

But  I will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 

To  yield  us  farther  furlough : ” and  he 
went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls, 
and  thought 

He  scarce  would  prosper.  44  Tell  us,” 
Florian  ask’d, 

44  How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the 
right  and  left.” 

44  O long  ago,”  she  said, 44  betwixt  these 
two 

Division  smoulders  hidden;  ’tis  my 
mother, 

Too  jealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 

Pei^t  in  a crevice : much  I bear  with 
her : 

I never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 

(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a 
fool ; 

And  still  she  rail’d  against  the  state 
of  things. 

She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida’s  youth, 

And  from  the  Queen’s  decease  she 
brought  her  up. 

But  when  your  sister  came  she  won 
the  heart 

Of  Ida : they  were  still  together,  grew 

(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inoscu- 
lated ; 

Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one 
note ; 

One  mind  in  all  things  : yet  my  mother 
still 

Affirms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  the- 
ories, 

And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil’s 
love  : 

She  calls  her  plagiarist ; I know  not 
what : 

But  I must  go  : I dare  not  tarry,”  and 
light, 

As  flies  the  shadow  of  a bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmur’d  Florian  gazing  after 
her, 

“An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and 
pure. 

If  I could  love,  why  this  were  she  : 
how  pretty 


400 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush’d 
again, 

As  if  to  close  with  Cyril’s  random 
wish : 

Not  like  your  Princess  cramm’d  with 
erring  pride, 

Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags 
in  tow.” 


“ The  crane,”  I said,  “ may  chatter 
of  the  crane, 

The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove, 
but  I 

An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 

My  princess,  O my  princess  ! true  she 
errs, 

But  in  her  own  grand  way  : being  her- 
self • 

Three  times  more  noble  than  three 
score  of  men, 

She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else, 

And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a 
crown 

To  blind  the  truth  and  me : for  her, 
and  her, 

Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 

The  nectar ; but  — ah  she  — whene’er 
she  moves 

The  Samian  Here  rises  and  she  speaks 

A Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning 
Sun.” 

So  saying  from  the  court  we  paced, 
and  gain’d 

The  terrace  ranged  along  the  North- 
ern front, 

And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters, 
high 

Above  the  empurpled  champaign, 
drank  the  gale 

That  blown  about  the  foliage  under- 
neath, 

And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 

Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.  Hither 
came 

Cyril,  and  yawning  “O  hard  task,” 
he  cried; 

“ No  fighting  shadows  here  ! I forced 
a way 

Thro’  solid  opposition  crabb’d  and 
gnarl’d. 


Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave 
and  thump 

A league  of  street  in  summer  solstice 
down, 

Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentle- 
woman. 

I knock’d  and,  bidden,  enter’d ; found 
her  there 

At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her 
eyes 

The  green  malignant  light  of  coming 
storm. 

Sir,  I was  courteous,  every  phrase 
well-oil’d, 

As  man’s  could  be ; yet  maiden-meek 
I pray’d 

Concealment:  she  demanded  who  we 
were, 

And  why  we  came  ? I fabled  nothing 
fair, 

But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 

Up  went  the  hush’d  amaze  of  hand 
and  eye. 

But  when  I dwelt  upon  your  old  affi- 
ance, 

She  answer’d  sharply  that  I talk’d 
astray. 

I urged  the  fierce  inscription  on  the 
gate, 

And  our  three  lives.  True  — we  had 
limed  ourselves 

With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take 
the  chance. 

But  such  extremes,  I told  her,  well 
might  harm 

The  woman’s  cause.  ‘ Not  more  than 
now,’  she  said, 

‘ So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favoritism.’ 

I tried  the  mother’s  heart.  Shame 
might  befall 

Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she 
knew : 

Her  answer  was  ‘ Leave  me  to  deal 
with  that.’ 

I spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many 
deaths, 

And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to 
speak, 

And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 

I grew  discouraged,  Sir ; but  since  I 
knew 

No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a little  wave 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


401 


May  beat  admission  in  a thousand 
years, 

I recommenced ; ‘ Decide  not  ere  you 
pause. 

I find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place, 

Some  "say  the  third  — the  authentic 
foundress  you. 

1 offer  boldly : we  will  seat  you  high- 
est : 

Wink  at  our  advent : help  my  prince 
to  gain 

His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I promise 
you 

Some  palace  in  our  land,  where  you 
shall  reign 

The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she- 
world, 

And  your  great  name  flow  on  with 
broadening  time 

For  ever.’  Well,  she  balanced  this  a 
little, 

And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to- 
day, 

Meantime  be  mute : thus  much,  nor 
more  I gain’d.” 

He  ceasing,  came  a message  from 
the  Head. 

“ That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to 
take 

The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 

Would  we  go  with  her  7 we  should  find 
the  land 

Worth  seeing;  and  the  river  made  a 
fall 

Out  yonder : ” then  she  pointed  on  to 
where 

A double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 

Beyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of 
the  vale. 


Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro’ 
all 

Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed 
hour. 

Then  summon’d  to  the  porch  we  went. 
She  stood 

Among  her  maidens,  higher  by  the 
head, 

Her  back  against  a pillar,  her  foot  on 
one 


Of  those  tame  leopards.  Kittenlike 
he  roll’d 

And  paw’d  about  her  sandal.  I drew 
near ; 

I gazed.  On  a sudden  my  strange 
seizure  came 

Upon  rtie,  the  weird  vision  of  our 
house : 

The  Princess  Ida  seem’d  a hollow 
show, 

Her  gay-furr’d  cats  a painted  fantasy, 

Her  college  and  her  maidens,  empty 
masks, 

And  I myself  the  shadow  of  a dream, 

F or  all  things  were  and  were  not.  Yet 
I felt 

My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and 
with  awe ; 

Then  from  my  breast  the  involuntary 
sigh 

Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light 
of  eyes 

That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and 
shook 

My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 

Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following 
up 

The  river  as  it  narrow’d  to  the  hills. 

I rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she 
said : 

“ O friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem’d 
us  not 

Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yester- 
morn ; 

Unwillingly  we  spake.”  “No  — not 
to  her,” 

I answer’d,  “ but  to  one  of  whom  we 
spake 

Your  Highness  might  have  seem’d  the 
thing  you  say.” 

“ Again  7 ” she  cried,  “ are  you  am- 
bassadresses 

From  him  to  me  7 we  give  you,  being 
strange, 

A license  : speak,  and  let  the  topic 
die.” 

I stammer’d  that  I knew  him  — 
could  have  wish’d  — 

“Our  king  expects  — was  there  no 
precontract  7 


402 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


There  is  no  truer-hearted  — ah,  you 
seem 

All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 

The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  but 
long’d 

To  follow : surely,  if  your  Highness 
keep 

Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev’n 
to  death, 

Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair.” 

“ Poor  boy,”  she  said,  “ can  he  not 
read  — no  books  \ 

Quoit,  tennis,  ball  — no  games  ? nor 
deals  in  that 

Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exer- 
cise ? 

To  nurse  a blind  ideal  like  a girl, 

Methinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a 
girl; 

As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have 
been : 

We  had  our  dreams;  perhaps  he  mixt 
with  them : 

We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun 
to  do  it, 

Being  other  — since  we  learnt  our 
meaning  here, 

To  lift  the  woman’s  fall’n  divinity 

Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man.” 

She  paused,  and  added  with  a 
haughtier  smile 

“ And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my 
friend, 

At  no  man’s  beck,  but  know  ourself 
and  thee, 

0 Yashti,  noble  Vashti!  Summon’d 

out 

She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the 
drunken  king 

To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the 
palms.” 

“ Alas  your  Highness  breathes  full 
East,”  I said, 

“ On  that  which  leans  to  you.  I know 
the  Prince, 

1 prize  his  truth : and  then  how  vast 

a work 

To  assail  this  gray  preeminence  of 
man ! 


You  grant  me  license ; might  I use  it  ? 
think ; 

Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life 
may  fail ; 

Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your 
plan, 

And  takes  and  ruins  all ; and  thus 
your  pains 

May  only  make  that  footprint  upon 
sand 

Which  old-recurring  waves  of  preju- 
dice 

Besmooth  to  nothing : might  I dread 
that  you, 

With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  your 
great  deeds 

For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and 
miss, 

Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts 
her  due, 

Love,  children,  happiness  ? ” 

And  she  exclaim’d, 

“Peace,  you  young  savage  of  the 
Northern  wild ! 

What ! tho’  your  Prince’s  love  were 
like  a God’s, 

Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacri- 
fice ? 

You  are  bold  indeed:  we  are  not 
talk’d  to  thus: 

Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would 
they  grew 

Like  field-flowers  everywhere  ! we  like 
them  well : 

But  children  die  ; and  let  me  tell  you, 
girl, 

Howe’er  you  babble,  great  deeds  can- 
not die ; 

They  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew 
their  light 

For  ever,  blessing  those  that  look  on 
them. 

Children  — that  men  may  pluck  them 
from  our  hearts, 

Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  our- 
selves — 

0 — children  — there  is  nothing  upon 
earth 

More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a 
son 

And  sees  him  err  : nor  would  we  work 
for  fame; 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


403 


Tho’  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  ap- 
plause of  Great, 

Who  learns  the  one  pou  sto  whence 
after-hands 

May  move  the  world,  tho’  she  herself 
effect 

But  little  : wherefore  up  and  act,  nor 
shrink 

For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 

By  frail  successors.  Would,  indeed, 
we  had  been, 

In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a race 

Of  giants  living,  each,  a thousand 
years, 

That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out, 
and  watch 

The  sandy  footprint  harden  into 
stone.” 

I answer’d  nothing,  doubtful  in 
myself 

If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her 
grand 

Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 

And  she  broke  out  interpreting  my 
thoughts : 

“ No  doubt  we  seem  a kind  of 
monster  to  you ; 

We  are  used  to  that : for  women,  up 
till  this 

Cramp’d  under  worse  than  South-sea 
isle  taboo, 

Dwarfs  of  the  gynaeceum,  fail  so  far 

In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot 
guess 

How  much  their  welfare  is  a passion 
to  us. 

If  we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker 
proof  — 

Oh  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 

By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single 
act 

Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death, 

We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against 
the  pikes, 

Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it, 

To  compass  our  dear  sisters’  lib- 
erties.” 

She  bow’d  as  if  to  vail  a noble 
tear; 


And  up  we  came  to  where  the  river 
sloped 

To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on 
black  blocks 

A breadth  of  thunder.  O’er  it  shook 
the  woods, 

And  danced  the  color,  and,  below, 
stuck  out 

The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that 
lived  and  roar’d 

Before  man  was.  She  gazed  awhile 
and  said, 

“ As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  we  to 
her 

That  will  be.”  “ Dare  we  dream  of 
that,”  I ask’d, 

“ Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman 
and  his  work, 

That  practice  betters  ? ” “ How,”  she 
cried,  “ you  love 

The  metaphysics ! read  and  earn 
our  prize, 

A golden  brooch  : beneath  an  emerald 
plane 

Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 

Of  hemlock  ; our  device  ; wrought  to 
the  life ; 

She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her : 

For  there  are  schools  for  all.”  “And 
yet  ” I said 

“ Methinks  I have  not  found  among 
them  all 

One  anatomic.”  “Nay,  we  thought 
of  that,” 

She  answ  er’d,  “ but  it  pleased  us  not : 
in  truth 

We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids 
should  ape 

Those  monstrous  males  that  carve 
the  living  hound, 

And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of 
the  grave, 

Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human 
heart, 

And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 

Dabbling  a shameless  hand  with 
shameful  jest, 

Encarnalize  their  spirits : yet  we 

know 

Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this 
matter  hangs  : 

Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty, 


404 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Nor  willing  men  should  come  among 
us,  learnt. 

For  many  weary  moons  before  we 
came, 

This  craft  of  healing.  Were  you 
sick,  ourself 

Would  tend  upon  you.  To  your 
question  now, 

Which  touches  on  the  workman  and 
his  work. 

Let  there  he  light  and  there  was 
light : ’tis  so  : 

For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but 
is ; 

And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 

The  birth  of  light:  but  we  that  are 
not  all, 

As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this, 
now  that, 

And  live,  perforce,  from  thought  to 
thought,  and  make 

One  act  a phantom  of  succession : 
thus 

Our  weakness  somehow  shapes  the 
shadow,  Time ; 

But  in  the  shadow  will  we  work,  and 
mould 

The  woman  to  the  fuller  day.” 

She  spake 

With  kindled  eyes  : we  rode  a league 
beyond, 

And,  o’er  a bridge  of  pinewood  cross- 
ing, came 

On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag, 

Full  of  all  beauty.  “ O how  sweet  ” 
I said 

(For  I was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask) 

“ To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved 
us.”  “Yea,” 

She  answer’d,  “or  with  fair  philoso- 
phies 

That  lift  the  fancy ; for  indeed  these 
fields 

Are  lovely,  lovelier  not  the  Elysian 
lawns, 

Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old, 
and  sawr 

The  soft  white  vapor  streak  the 
crowned  towers 

Built  to  the  Sun : ” then,  turning  to 
her  maids, 


“Pitch  our  pavilion  here  upon  the 
sward ; 

Lay  out  the  viands.”  At  the  word, 
they  raised 

A tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 

With  fair  Corinna’s  triumph ; here 
she  stood, 

Engirt  with  many  a florid  maiden- 
cheek, 

The  woman  conqueror;  woman-con- 
quer’d  there 

The  bearded  Victor  of  ten-thousand 
hymns, 

And  all  the  men  mourn’d  at  his  side  : 
but  we 

Set  forth  to  climb ; then,  climbing, 
Cyril  kept 

With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 

With  mine  affianced.  Many  a little 
hand 

Glanced  like  a touch  of  sunshine  on 
the  rocks, 

Many  a light  foot  shone  like  a jewel 
set 

In  the  dark  crag : and  then  we  turn’d, 
we  wound 

About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in, 

Hammering  and  clinking,  chattering 
stony  names 

Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and 
trap  and  tuff, 

Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 

Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and 
fell,  and  all 

The  rosy  heights  came  out  above  the 
lawns. 

IV. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 

Blow,  bugle  ; answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O hark,  O hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 

O sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 

Blow,  bugle  ; answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky. 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


405 


And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

“ There  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we 
call  the  Sun, 

If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound.” 
Said  Ida ; “ let  us  down  and  rest ; ” 
and  we 

Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled 
precipices, 

By  every  coppice-feather’d  chasm  and 
cleft, 

Dropt  thro’  the  ambrosial  gloom  to 
where  below 

No  bigger  than  a glow-worm  shone 
the  tent 

Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.  Once  she 
lean’d  on  me, 

Descending;  once  or  twice  she  lent 
her  hand, 

And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood, 
Stirring  a sudden  transport  rose  and 
fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet, 
and  dipt 

Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter’d  in, 
There  leaning  deep  in  broider’d  down 
we  sank 

Our  elbows  : on  a tripod  in  the  midst 
A fragrant  flame  rose,  and  before  us 
glow’d 

Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine, 
and  gold. 

Then  she,  “ Let  some  one  sing  to 
us : lightlier  move 

The  minutes  fledged  with  music : ” 
and  a maid, 

Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp, 
and  sang. 

“ Tears,  idle  tears,  I know  not  what  they 
mean, 

Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 

In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 

And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“ Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world, 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 


That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“ Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 
dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken’d  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a glimmering 
square ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“ Dear  as  remember’d  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign’d 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ; deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 

O Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more.” 

Site  ended  with  such  passion  that 
the  tear, 

She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring 
pearl 

Lost  in  her  bosom : but  with  some 
disdain 

Answer’d  the  Princess,  “ If  indeed 
there  haunt 

About  the  moulder’d  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a voice  and  vague,  fatal  to 
men, 

Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears 
with  wool 

And  so  pace  by  : but  thine  are  fancies 
hatch’d 

In  silken-folded  idleness  ; nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a true  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones 
be, 

While  down  the  streams  that  float  us 
each  and  all 

To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering 
bergs  of  ice, 

Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on 
the  waste 

Becomes  a cloud : for  all  things  serve 
their  time 

Toward  that  great  year  of  equal 
mights  and  rights, 

Nor  would  I fight  with  iron  laws,  in 
the  end 

Found  golden:  let  the  past  be  past; 
let  be 

Their  cancell’d  Babels : tho’  the  rough 
kex  break 

The  starr’d  mosaic,  and  the  beard- 
blown  goat 

Hang  on  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  fig- 
tree  split 


406 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while 
we  hear 

A trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a poising  eagle, 
burns 

Above  the  unrisen  morrow  : ” then  to 
me ; 

“ Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land,” 
she  said, 

“ Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retro- 
spect, 

But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and 
the  hues 

Of  promise ; not  a death’s-head  at  the 
wine.” 

Then  I remember’d  one  myself  had 
made, 

What  time  I watch’d  the  swallow 
winging  south 

From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long 
since,  and  part 

Now  while  I sang,  and  maidenlike  as 
far 

As  I could  ape  their  treble,  did  I sing. 

“ O Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I tell  to  thee. 

“O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest 
each, 

That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

“ O Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I could  follow, 
and  light 

Upon  her  lattice,  I would  pipe  and  trill, 

And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

“ 0 were  I thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I died. 

“ Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart 
with  love, 

Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are 
green  ? 

“ O tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is 
flown : 

Say  to  her,  I do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 

But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

“ O tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 


“ O Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods. 

Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make 
her  mine, 

And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I follow  thee.’’ 

I ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at 
each, 

Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  old 
time, 

Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh’d 
with  alien  lips, 

And  knew  not  what  they  meant ; for 
still  my  voice 

Kang  false : but  smiling  “ Not  for 
thee,”  she  said, 

“ O Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 

Shall  burst  her  veil : marsh-divers, 
rather,  maid, 

Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow- 
crake 

Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass : 
and  this 

A mere  love-poem ! O for  such,  my 
friend, 

We  hold  them  slight : they  mind  us  of 
the  time 

When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt. 
Knaves  are  men, 

That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tender- 
ness, 

And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up. 

And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Par- 
adise, 

And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 

Poor  soul ! I had  a maid  of  honor  once ; 

She  wrept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  such 
a one, 

A rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 

I loved  her.  Peace  be  with  her.  She 
is  dead. 

So  they  blaspheme  the  muse  ! But 
great  is  song 

Used  to  great  ends  : ourself  have  often 
tried 

Yalkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm 
have,  dash’d 

The  passion  of  the  prophetess ; for  song 

Is  duer  unto  freedom , force  and  growth 

Of  spirit  than  to  junketing  and  love. 

Love  is  it  ? Would  this  same  mock- 
love,  and  this 

Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter 
bats, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


407 


Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our 
worth, 

Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 

To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills, 
and  sphered 

Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 
Enough ! 

But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit, 
you, 

Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of 
your  soil, 

That  gives  the  manners  of  your  coun- 
try-women 'i 

She  spoke  and  turn’d  her  sumptu- 
ous head  with  eyes 

Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 

Then  while  I dragg’d  my  brains  for 
such  a song, 

Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth’d 
glass  had  wrought, 

Or  master’d  by  the  sense  of  sport,  be- 
gan 

To  troll  a careless,  careless  tavern- 
catch 

Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experi- 
ences 

Unmeet  for  ladies.  Elorian  nodded 
at  him, 

I frowning ; Psyche  flush’d  and  wann’d 
and  shook  ; 

The  lilylike  Melissa  droop’d  her  brows ; 

“ Forbear,”  the  Princess  cried  ; “For- 
bear, Sir,”  I ; 

And  heated  thro’  and  thro’  with  wrath 
and  love, 

I smote  him  on  the  breast ; he  started 
up; 

There  rose  a shriek  as  of  a city  sack’d  ; 

Melissa  clamor’d  “ Flee  the  death ; ” 
“ To  horse,” 

Said  Ida ; “ home  ! to  horse  ! ” and 
fled,  as  flies 

A troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the 
dusk, 

When  some  one  batters  at  the  dove- 
cote-doors, 

Disorderly  the  women.  Alone  I stood 

With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at 
heart, 

In  the  pavilion  : there  like  parting 
hopes 


I heard  them  passing  from  me : hoof 
by  hoof, 

And  every  hoof  a knell  to  my  desires, 

Clang’d  on  the  bridge ; and  then  an- 
other shriek, 

“ The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  0 
the  Head ! ” 

For  blind  with  rage  she  miss’d  the 
plank,  and  roll’d 

In  the  river.  Out  I sprang  from  glow 
to  gloom  : 

There  whirl’d  her  white  robe  like  a 
blossom’d  branch 

Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall : a glance  I 
gave, 

No  more ; but  woman-vested  as  I was 

Plunged ; and  the  flood  drew ; yet  I 
caught  her;  then 

Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my 
left 

The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half 
the  world, 

Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.  A tree 

Was  half-disrooted  from  his  place  and 
stoop’d 

To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gur- 
gling wave 

Mid-channel.  Right  on  this  we  drove 
and  caught, 

And  grasping  down  the  boughs  I 
gain’d  the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmer- 
ingly  group’d 

In  the  hollow  bank.  One  reaching 
forward  drew 

My  burthen  from  mine  arms ; they 
cried  “ she  lives  : ” 

They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent : but 

I, 

So  much  a kind  of  shame  within  me 
wrought, 

Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening 
eyes, 

Nor  found  my  friends;  but  push’d 
alone  on  foot 

(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I left 
her  mine) 

Across  the  woods,  and  less  from 
Indian  craft 

Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found 
at  length 


408 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


The  garden  portals.  Two  great 
statues,  Art 

And  Science,  Caryatids  lifted  up 

A weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were 
valves 

Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter 
rued 

His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  his 
brows 

Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  there- 
upon 

Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked 
the  gates. 

A little  space  was  left  between  the 
horns, 

Thro’  which  I clamber’d  o’er  at  top 
with  pain, 

Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden 
walks, 

And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed 
from  hue  to  hue, 

Now  poring  on  the  glowworm,  now 
the  star, 

I paced  the  terrace,  till  the  Bear  had 
wheel’d 

Thro’  a great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 

A step 

Of  lightest  echo,  then  a loftier  form 

Than  female,  moving  thro’  the  uncer- 
tain gloom, 

Disturb’d  me  with  the  doubt  “ if  this 
were  she,” 

But  it  was  Florian.  “ Hist  O Hist,” 
he  said, 

“ They  seek  us : out  so  late  is  out  of 
rules. 

Moreover  ‘ seize  the  strangers  ’ is  the 
cry. 

How  came  you  here  ? ” I told  him  : 
“ I ” said  he, 

“ Last  of  the  train,  a moral  leper,  I, 

To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at 
heart,  return’d. 

Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 

With  hooded  brows  I crept  into  the 
hall, 

And,  couch’d  behind  a Judith,  under- 
neath 

The  head  of  Holof  ernes  peep’d  and  saw. 

Girl  after  girl  was  call’d  to  trial : each 


Disclaim'd  all  knowledge  of  us : last 
of  all, 

Melissa : trust  me,  Sir,  I pitied  her. 

She,  question’d  if  she  knew  us  men, 
at  first 

Was  silent;  closer  prest,  denied  it 
not : 

And  then,  demanded  if  her  mother 
knew, 

Or  Psyche,  she  affirm’d  not,  or  de- 
nied : 

From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  famil- 
iar with  her, 

Easily  gather’d  either  guilt.  She 
sent 

For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there  ; 
she  call’d 

For  Psyche’s  child  to  cast  it  from 
the  doors ; 

She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her 
face  to  face ; 

And  I slipt  out : but  whither  will  you 
now  ? 

And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril  ? both 
are  fled  : 

What,  if  together?  that  were  not  so 
well. 

Would  rather  we  had  never  come  ! I 
dread 

His  wildness,  and  the  chances  of  the 
dark.” 

“And yet,”  I said,  “you  wrrong  him 
more  than  I 

That  struck  him : this  is  proper  to  the 
clown, 

Tho’  smock’d,  or  furr’d  and  purpled, 
still  the  clown, 

To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him, 
and  to  shame 

That  wdiich  he  says  he  loves : for 
Cyril,  howe’er 

He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night  — the 
song 

Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn’d  in 
grosser  lips 

Beyond  all  pardon  — as  it  is,  I hold 

These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not 
he. 

He  has  a solid  base  of  temperament : 

But  as  the  waterlily  starts  and  slides 

Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


409 


Tho’  anchor’d  to  the  bottom,  such  is 
he.” 

Scarce  had  I ceased  when  from  a 
tamarisk  near 

Two  Proctors  leapt  upon  us,  crying, 
“ Names : ” 

He,  standing  still,  was  clutch’d ; but 
I began 

To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes, 
wind 

And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and 
race 

By  all  the  fountains  : fleet  I was  of 
foot : 

Before  me  shower’d  the  rose  in  flakes  ; 
behind 

I heard  the  puff’d  pursuer;  at  mine 
ear 

Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded 
not, 

And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my 
soul. 

At  last  I hook’d  my  ankle  in  a vine, 

That  claspt  the  feet  of  a Mnemosyne, 

And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught 
and  known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess 
where  she  sat 

High  in  the  hall : above  her  droop’d 
a lamp, 

And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her 
brow 

Burn  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a mast- 
head, 

Prophet  of  storm  : a handmaid  on 
each  side 

Bow’d  toward  her,  combing  out  her 
long  black  hair 

Damp  from  the  river;  and  close  be- 
hind her  stood 

Eight  daughters  of  the  plough, 
stronger  than  men, 

Huge  women  blowzed  with  health, 
and  wind,  and  rain, 

And  labor.  Each  was  like  a Druid 
rock; 

Or  like  a spire  of  land  that  stands 
apart 

Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail’d  about 
with  mews. 


Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  divid- 
ing clove 

An  advent  to  the  throne : and  there- 
beside, 

Half-naked  as  if  caught  at  once  from 
bed 

And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth, 
lay 

The  lily-shining  child ; and  on  the 
left. 

Bow’d  on  her  palms  and  folded  up 
from  wrong, 

Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with 
her  sobs, 

Melissa  knelt;  but  Lady  Blanche 
erect 

Stood  up  and  spake,  an  affluent 
orator. 


“ It  was  not  thus,  O Princess,  in  old 
days  : 

You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon 
my  lips  : 

I led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies; 

I fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every 
Muse ; 

I loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you 
me 

Your  second  mother:  those  were 

gracious  times*. 

Then  came  your  new  friend : you 
began  to  change  — 

I saw  it  and  grieved  — to  slacken  and 
to  cool; 

Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 

You  turn’d  your  warmer  currents  all 
to  her, 

To  me  you  froze : this  was  my  meed 
for  all. 

Yet  I bore  up  in  part  from  ancient 
love, 

And  partly  that  I hoped  to  win  you 
back, 

And  partly  conscious  of  my  own 
deserts, 

And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil 
head, 

And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  some- 
thing great, 

In  which  I might  your  fellow-worker 
be, 


410 


THE  PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY . 


When  time  should  serve  ; and  thus  a 
noble  scheme 

Grew  up  from  seed  we  two  long  since 
had  sown ; 

In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a Jonah’s 
gourd, 

Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden 
sun : 

We  took  this  palace;  but  even  from 
the  first 

You  stood  in  your  own  light  and 
darken’d  mine. 

What  student  came  but  that  you 
planed  her  path 

To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 

A foreigner,  and  I your  country- 
woman, 

I your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new 
in  all  ^ 

But  still  her  lists  were  swell’d  and 
mine  were  lean ; 

Yet  I bore  up  in  hope  she  would  be 
known : 

Then  came  these  wolves:  they  knew 
her : they  endured, 

Long-closeted  with  her  the  yester- 
morn, 

To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she 
to  hear : 

And  me  none  told : not  less  to  an  eye 
like  mine* 

A lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal, 

Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent, 
and  my  foot 

Was  to  you : but  I thought  again : I 
fear’d 

To  meet  a cold  ‘ We  thank  you,  we 
shall  hear  of  it 

From  Lady  Psyche : ’ you  had  gone 
to  her, 

She  told,  perforce ; and  winning  easy 
grace, 

No  doubt,  for  slight  delay,  remain’d 
among  us 

In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown, 
the  stem 

Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my 
honest  heat 

Were  all  miscounted  as  malignant 
haste 

To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and 
power. 


But  public  use  required  she  should  be 
known ; 

And  since  my  oath  was  ta’en  for 
public  use, 

I broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the 
sense. 

I spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch’d 
them  well, 

Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief 
done ; 

And  yet  this  day  (tho’  you  should 
hate  me  for  it) 

I came  to  tell  you ; found  that  you 
had  gone, 

Ridd’n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise  : now, 
I thought, 

That  surely  she  will  speak;  if  not, 
then  I : 

Did  she?  These  monsters  blazon’d 
what  they  were, 

According  to  the  coarseness  of  their 
kind, 

For  thus  I hear;  and  known  at  last 
(my  work) 

And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty 
shame, 

I grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame, 
she  flies ; 

And  I remain  on  whom  to  wreak 
your  rage, 

I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up 
yours, 

I that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth, 
and  time, 

And  talent,  I — you  know  it  — I Mull 
not  boast : 

Dismiss  me,  and  I prophesy  your  plan, 

Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be 
chaff 

For  every  gust  of  chance,  and  men 
will  say 

We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but 
chased 

The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot 
can  tread.” 

She  ceased : the  Princess  ansM^er’d 
coldly,  “ Good  : 

Your  oath  is  broken  : we  dismiss  you : 
go. 

For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the 
child) 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


411 


Our  mind  is  changed : we  take  it  to 
ourself.” 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch’d  a vul- 
ture throat, 

And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a haggard 
smile. 

“ The  plan  was  mine.  I built  the 
nest  ” she  said 

“ To  hatch  the  cuckoo.  Rise  ! ” and 
stoop’d  to  updrag 

Melissa : she,  half  on  her  mother  propt, 

Half-drooping  from  her,  turn’d  her 
face,  and  cast 

A liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer, 

Which  melted  Florian’s  fancy  as  she 
hung, 

A Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out, 

Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven ; 
and  while 

We  gazed  upon  her  came  a little  stir 

About  the  doors,  and  on  a sudden 
rush’d 

Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pur- 
sued, 

A woman-post  in  flying  raiment. 
Fear 

Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk’d  her 
face,  and  wing’d 

Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she 
fell 

Delivering  seal’d  dispatches  which 
the  Head 

Took  half-amazed,  and  in  her  lion’s 
mood 

Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 

Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over 
brow 

And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the 
wrathful  bloom 

As  of  some  fire  against  a stormy 
cloud, 

When  the  wild  peasant  rights  him- 
self, the  rick 

Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the 
heavens ; 

For  anger  most  it  seem’d,  while  now 
her  breast, 

Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at 
her  heart, 

Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we 
heard 


In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she 
held 

Rustle : at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her 
feet 

Sent  out  a bitter  bleating  for  its  dam  ; 

The  plaintive  cry  jarr’d  on  her  ire ; 
she  crush’d 

The  scrolls  together,  made  a sudden 
turn 

As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing 
her, 

She  whirl’d  them  on  to  me,  as  who 
should  say 

“Read,”  and  I read — two  letters  — 
one  her  sire’s. 

“ Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the 
Prince  your  way 

We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws, 
which  learnt, 

We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you 
are  built, 

Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong, 
but  fell 

Into  his  father’s  hands,  who  has  this 
night, 

You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 

Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested 
you, 

And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his 
son.” 


The  second  was  my  father’s  running 
thus : 

“ You  have  our  son : touch  not  a hair 
of  his  head  : 

Render  him  up  unscathed : give  him 
your  hand : 

Cleave  to  your  contract : tho’  indeed 
we  hear 

You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man ; 

A rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 

Would  make  all  women  kick  against 
their  Lords 

Thro’  all  the  world,  and  which  might 
well  deserve 

That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your 
palace  down ; 

And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us 
back 

Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole  ” 


412 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


So  far  I read  ; 

And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetu- 
ously. 

“ 0 not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your 
reserve, 

But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a hope 

The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I 
break 

Your  precinct;  not  a scorner  of  your 
sex 

But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 

All  that  it  might  be : hear  me,  for  I 
bear, 

Tho’  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe’er 
your  wrongs, 

From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock 
a life 

Less  mine  than  yours : my  nurse 
would  tell  me  of  you  ; 

I babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the 
moon, 

Vague  brightness;  when  a boy,  you 
stoop’d  to  me 

From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair 
lights, 

Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  in- 
most south 

And  blown  to  inmost  north  ; at  eve 
and  dawn 

With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods ; 

The  leader  wildswan  in  among  the 
stars 

Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths 
of  glowworm  light 

The  mellow  breaker  murmur’d  Ida. 
Now, 

Because  I would  have  reach’d  you, 
had  you  been 

Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the 
enthroned 

Persephone  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 

Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 

A man  I came  to  see  you  : but,  indeed, 

Not  in  this  frequence  can  I lend  full 
tongue, 

O noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that 
wait 

On  you,  their  centre : let  me  say  but 
this, 

That  many  a famous  man  and  woman, 
town 


And  landskip,  have  I heard  of,  afier 
seen 

The  dwarfs  of  presage : tho’  when 
known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing;  but  in 
you  I found 

My  boyish  dream  involved  and  daz- 
zled down 

And  master’d,  while  that  after-beauty 
makes 

Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour 
to  hour, 

Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me 
here, 

According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 
I cannot  cease  to  follow  you,  asthey  say 
The  seal  does  music ; who  desire  you 
more 

Than  growing  boys  their  manhood ; 
dying  lips, 

With  many  thousand  matters  left  to 
do, 

The  breath  of  life ; O more  than  poor 
men  wealth, 

Than  sick  men  health  — yours,  yours, 
not  mine  — but  half 
Without  you;  with  you,  whole;  and 
of  those  halves 

You  worthiest ; and  howe’er  you  block 
and  bar 

Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine, 
I hold 

That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse 
despair, 

But  in  the  teeth  of  clench’d  antago- 
nisms 

To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die  : 
Yet  that  I came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father’s  letter.” 

On  one  knee 

Kneeling,  I gave  it,  which  she  caught, 
and  dash’d 

Unopen’d  at  her  feet : a tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem’d  to  wait  behind  her 
lips, 

As  waits  a river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world 
with  foam : 

And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but 
there  rose 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


413 


A hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the 
maids 

Gather’d  together : from  the  illumined 
hall 

Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o’er  a 
press 

Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded 
ewes, 

And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and 
gemlike  eyes, 

And  gold  and  golden  heads ; they  to 
and  fro 

Fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some 
red,  some  pale, 

All  open-mouth’d,  all  gazing  to  the 
light, 

Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the 
land, 

And  some  that  men  were  in  the  very 
walls, 

And  some  they  cared  not ; till  a 
clamor  grew 

As  of  a new-world  Babel,  woinan- 
built, 

And  worse-confounded:  high  above 
them  stood 

The  placid  marble  Muses,  looking 
peace. 

Not  peace  she  look’d,  the  Head: 
but  rising  up 

Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep 
hair,  so 

To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining 
there 

Fixt  like  a beacon-tower  above  the 
waves 

Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling 
eye 

Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the 
light 

Dash  themselves  dead.  She  stretch’d 
her  arms  and  call’d 

Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

“ What  fear  ye,  brawlers  ? am  not 
I your  Head  ? 

On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks  : 
1 dare 

All  these  male  thunderbolts  : what  is 
it  ye  fear  1 


Peace ! there  are  those  to  avenge  us 
and  they  come : 

If  not, — myself  were  like  enough,  O 
girls, 

To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our 
rights, 

And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of 
war, 

Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause, 

Die : yet  I blame  you  not  so  much  for 
fear; 

Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made 
you  that 

From  which  I would  redeem  you  : but 
for  those 

That  stir  this  hubbub  — you  and  you 
— I know 

Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd  — to- 
morrow morn 

We  hold  a great  convention:  then 
shall  they 

That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty, 
learn 

With  whom  they  deal,  dismiss’d  in 
shame  to  live 

No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  house- 
hold stuff, 

Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other’s 
fame, 

Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the 
clown, 

The  drunkard’s  football,  laughing- 
stocks  of  Time, 

Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and 
in  their  heels, 

But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to 
thrum, 

To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and 
to  scour, 

For  ever  slaves  at  home  and  fools 
abroad.” 

She,  ending,  waved  her  hands ; 
thereat  the  crowd 

Muttering,  dissolved : then  with  a 
smile,  that  look’d 

A stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the 
cliff, 

When  all  the  glens  are  drown’d  in 
azure  gloom 

Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us 
and  said : 


414 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


“You  have  clone  well  and  like  a 
gentleman, 

And  like  a prince : you  have  our 
thanks  for  all : 

And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman’s 
dress  : 

Well  have  you  done  and  like  a gentle- 
man. 

You  saved  our  life  : we  owe  you  bitter 
thanks : 

Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones 
in  the  flood  — 

Then  men  had  said  — but  now  — What 
hinders  me 

To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 
both  1 — 

Yet  since  our  father-  - Wasps  in  our 
good  hive, 

You  would-be  quenchers  of  the  light 
to  be, 

Barbarians,  grosser  than  your  native 
bears  — 

0 would  I had  his  sceptre  for  one 

hour ! 

You  that  have  dared  to  break  our 
bound,  and  gull’d 

Our  servants,  wrong’d  and  lied  and 
thwarted  us  — 

/wed  withthee!  /boundbyprecontract 

Your  bride,  your  bondslave  ! not  tho’ 
all  the  gold 

That  veins  the  world  were  pack’d  to 
make  your  crown, 

And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord 
you.  Sir, 

Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hate- 
ful to  us : 

1 trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you : 

Begone : we  will  not  look  upon  you 

more. 

Here,  push  them  out  at  gates.” 

In  wrath  she  spake. 

Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of 
the  plough 

Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and 
address’d 

Their  motion  : twice  I sought  to  plead 
my  cause, 

But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy 
hands, 

The  weight  of  destiny  : so  from  her 
face 


They  push’d  us,  down  the  steps,  and 
thro’  the  court, 

And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out 
at  gates. 

We  cross’d  the  street  and  gain’d  a 
petty  mound 

Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights 
and  heard 

The  voices  murmuring.  While  I 
listen’d,  came 

On  a sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the 
doubt : 

I seem’d  to  move  among  a world  of 
ghosts ; 

The  Princess  with  her  monstrous 
woman-guard, 

The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by 
side, 

The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the 
kings 

Were  shadows ; and  the  long  fantas- 
tic night 

With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not 
been, 

And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 

As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my 
spirits 

Settled  a gentle  cloud  of  melancholy  ; 

Not  long ; I shook  it  off ; for  spite  of 
doubts 

And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I was 
one 

To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance 
but  came 

As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a hill 

Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Nor- 
way sun 

Set  into  sunrise  ; then  we  ftioved  away. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  thro’  rolling  drums, 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands; 

Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 

A moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee; 

The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

So  Lilia  sang:  we  thought  her  half- 
possess’d, 

She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro’ 
the  words ; 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


415 


And,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she 
call’d 

The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false 
sublime  — 

Like  one  that  wishes  at  a dance  to 
change 

The  music  — clapt  her  hands  and 
cried  for  war, 

Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make 
an  end : 

And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 

Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue,  said, 

“ Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors  : if  I 
prove 

Your  knight,  and  fight  your  battle, 
what  for  me  ? ” 

It  chanced,  her  empty  glove  upon  the 
tomb 

Lay  by  her  like  a model  of  her  hand. 

She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.  “ Fight,” 
she  said, 

“And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great 
and  good.” 

He  knightlike  in  his  cap  instead  of 
casque, 

A cap  of  Tyrol  borrow’d  from  the  hall, 

Arranged  the  favor,  and  assumed  the 
Prince. 


Now,  scarce  three  paces  measured 
from  the  mound, 

We  stumbled  on  a stationary  voice, 

And  “ Stand,  who  goes  1 ” “ Two 

from  the  palace  ” I. 

“ The  second  two  : they  wait,”  he  said, 
“ pass  on  ; 

His  Highness  wakes  : ” and  one,  that 
clash’d  in  arms, 

By  glimmering  lanes  and  walls  of 
canvass  led 

Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we 
heard 

The  drowsy  folds  of  our  great  ensign 
shake 

From  blazon’d  lions  o’er  the  imperial 
tent 

Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 

Dazed  me  half-blind : I stood  and 
seem’d  to  hear, 


As  in  a poplar  grove  when  a light 
wind  wakes 

A lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and 
dies, 

Each  hissing  in  his  neighbor’s  ear  ; 
and  then 

A strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there 
brake 

On  all  sides,  clamoring  etiquette  to 
death, 

Unmeasured  mirth  ; while  now  the  two 
old  kings 

Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and 
down, 

The  fresh  young  captains  flash’d  their 
glittering  teeth, 

The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved 
and  blew, 

And  slain  with  laughter  roll’d  th* 
gilded  Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheel 
wet  writh  tears, 

Panted  from  weary  sides  “ King,  you 
are  free  ! 

We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  out 
son, 

If  this  be  he,  — or  a draggled  mawkin, 
thou, 

That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in 
the  sludge : ” 

For  I was  drench’d  with  ooze,  and 
torn  with  briers, 

More  crumpled  than  a poppy  from  the 
sheath, 

And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  from  head 
to  heel. 

Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his 
vaulted  palm 

A whisper’d  jest  to  some  one  near 
him,  “ Look, 

He  has  been  among  his  shadows.” 
“ Satan  take 

The  old  women  and  their  shadows  1 
(thus  the  King 

Roar’d)  make  yourself  a man  to  fight 
with  men. 

Go  : Cyril  told  us  all.” 

As  boys  that  slink 

From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding 
eye, 

Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a trice 


416 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman- 
slough 

To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden 
scale 

Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that 
now 

Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the 
Earth, 

And  hit  the  Northern  hills.  Here 
Cyril  met  us. 

A little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 

We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask’d 
and  given 

For  stroke  and  song,  resolder’d  peace, 
whereon 

Follow’d  his  tale.  Amazed  he  fled 
away 

Thro’  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the 
night 

Had  came  on  Psyche  weeping:  “then 
we  fell 

Into  your  father’s  hand,  and  there  she 
lies, 

But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir.” 

He  show’d  a tent 

A stoije-sliot  off:  we  enter’d  in,  and 
there 

Among  piled  arms  and  rough  ac- 
coutrements, 

Pitiful  sight,  wrapp’d  in  a soldier’s 
cloak, 

Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped 
from  head  to  foot, 

And  push’d  by  rude  hands  from  its 
pedestal, 

All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground 
she  lay  : 

And  at  her  head  a follower  of  the 
camp, 

A charr’d  and  wrinkled  piece  of  wo- 
manhood, 

Sat  watching  like  a watcher  by  the 
dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt,  and  “ Come  ” 
he  whisper’d  to  her, 

“ Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister : lie 
not  thus. 

What  have  you  done  but  right  ? you 
could  not  slay 

Me.  nor  your  prince : look  up  : be 
comforted : 


Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one 
ought, 

When  fallen  in  darker  ways.”  And 
likewise  I : 

“ Be  comforted : have  I not  lost  her 
too, 

In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless 
charm 

That  none  has  else  for  me  ? ” She 
heard,  she  moved, 

She  moan’d,  a folded  voice  ; and  up 
she  sat, 

And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as 
pale  and  smooth 

As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded 
over  death 

In  deathless  marble.  “ Her,”  she 
said,  “ my  friend  — 

Parted  from  her  — betray’d  her  cause 
and  mine  — 

Where  shall  I breathe  ? why  kept  ye 
not  your  faith  ? 

O base  and  bad  ! what  comfort  ? none 
for  me  ! ” 

To  whom  remorseful  Cyril,  “Yet  I pray 

Take  comfort  : live,  dear  lady,  for  your 
child ! ” 

At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and 
cried. 

“ Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah, 
my  child, 

My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I shall  see 
no  more ! 

For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back ; 

And  either  she  will  die  from  want  of 
care, 

Or  sicken  with  ill-usage,  when  they  say 

The  child  is  hers  — for  evpry  little 
fault, 

The  child  is  hers  ; and  they  will  beat 
my  girl 

Remembering  her  mother : O my 

flower ! 

Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make 
her  hard, 

And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 

With  some  cold  reverence  worse  than 
were  she  dead. 

Ill  mother  thatlwas  toleave  her  there, 

To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry 
they  made, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


41? 


The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them 
all: 

But  I will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a wild  petition  night  and 
day, 

Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a wind 
Wailing  for  ever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet, 
My  babe,  my  sweet  Agla'ia,  my  one 
child : 

And  I will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her : 
Ah ! what  might  that  man  not  deserve 
of  me 

Who  gave  me  back  my  child  1 ” “ Be 
comforted,” 

Said  Cyril,  “ you  shall  have  it : ” but 
again 

She  veil’d  her  brows,  and  prone  she 
sank,  and  so 

Like  tender  things  that  being  caught 
feign  death, 

Spoke  not,  nor  stirr’d. 

By  this  a murmur  ran 
Thro’  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced 
the  scouts 

With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at 
hand. 

We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  with- 
out 

Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle : and 
“ Look  you”  cried 

My  father  “ that  our  compact  be  ful- 
fill’d : 

You  have  spoilt  this  child ; she  laughs 
at  you  and  man  : 

She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me, 
and  him : 

But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel 
and  fire ; 

She  yields,  or  war.” 

Then  Gama  turn’d  to  me : 
“We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a stormy 
time 

With  our  strange  girl : and  yet  they 
say  that  still 

You  love  her.  Give  us,  then,  your 
mind  at  large : 

How  say  you,  war  or  not  ? ” 

“ Not  war,  if  possible, 
0 king,”  I said,  “ lest  from  the  abuse 
of  war, 


The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled 
year, 

The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the 
household  flower 

Torn  from  the  lintel  — all  the  com- 
mon wrong  — 

A smoke  go  up  thro’  which  I loom  to 
her 

Three  times  a monster:  now  she 
lightens  scorn 

At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then 
would  hate 

(And  every  voice  she  talk’d  with 
ratify  it, 

And  every  face  she  look’d  on  justify  it) 

The  general  foe.  More  soluble  is  this 
knot, 

By  gentleness  than  war.  I want  her 
love. 

What  were  I nigher  this  altho’  we 
dash’d 

Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults, 

She  would  not  love ; — or  brought  her 
chain’d,  a slave, 

The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord, 

Not  ever  would  she  love;  but  brood- 
ing turn 

The  book  of  scorn,  till  all  my  flitting 
chance 

Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her 
wrongs, 

And  crush’d  to  death : and  rather, 
Sire,  than  this 

I would  the  old  God  of  war  himself 
were  dead, 

Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills, 

Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs 
of  wreck, 

Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk’d 
in  ice, 

Not  to  be  molten  out.” 

And  roughly  spake 

My  father,  “ Tut,  you  know  them  not, 
the  girls. 

Boy,  when  I hear  you  prate  I almost 
think 

That  idiot  legend  credible.  Look  you. 
Sir ! 

Man  is  the  hunter ; woman  is  his 
game  : 

The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the 
chase, 


418 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their 
skins ; 

They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them 
down. 

Wheedling  and  siding  with  them ! 
Out ! for  shame  ! 

Boy,  there’s  no  rose  that’s  half  so  dear 
to  them 

As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare 
not  do, 

Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous 
battle,  comes 

With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round 
him,  and  leaps  in 

Among  the  women,  snares  them  by 
the  score 

Flatter’d  and  fluster’d,  wins,  tho’ 
dash’d  with  death 

He  reddens  what  he  kisses : thus  I won 

Your  mother,  a good  mother,  a good 
wife, 

Worth  winning;  but  this  firebrand — 
gentleness 

To  such  as  her ! if  Cyril  spake  her  true, 

To  catch  a dragon  in  a cherry  net, 

To  trip  a tigress  with  a gossamer, 

Were  wisdom  to  it.” 

“Yea  but  Sire,”  I cried, 

“ Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.  The 
soldier  1 No : 

What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should 
prize 

The  soldier  1 I beheld  her,  when  she 
rose 

The  yesternight,  and  storming  in  ex- 
tremes, 

Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance 
down 

Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn’d 
the  death, 

No,  not  the  soldier’s  : yet  I hold  her, 
king, 

True  woman : but  you  clash  them  all 
in  one, 

That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 

The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 

As  oak  from  elm : one  loves  the  sol- 
dier, one 

The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this, 
one  that, 

And  some  unworthily;  their  sinless 
faith, 


A maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a sty, 

Glorifying  clown  and  satyr ; whence 
they  need 

More  breadth  of  culture  : is  not  Ida 
right  ? 

They  worth  it  ? truer  to  the  law  with- 
in % 

Severer  in  the  logic  of  a life  ? 

Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 

Of  earth  and  heaven  'l  and  she  of 
whom  you  speak, 

My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some 
serene 

Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 

Of  sovereign  artists ; not  a thought, 
a touch, 

But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak 
the  white 

Of  the  first  snowdrop’s  inner  leaves ; 
I say, 

Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man, 

Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in 
sensual  mire, 

But  whole  and  one : and  take  them 
all-in-all, 

Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good, 
as  kind, 

As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claims  as 
right 

Had  ne’er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly 
theirs 

As  dues  of  Nature.  To  our  point: 
not  war : 

Lest  I lose  all.” 

“ Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense,” 

Said  Gama.  “We  remember  love 
ourself 

In  our  sweet  youth ; we  did  not  rate 
him  then 

This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with 
blows. 

You  talk  almost  like  Ida : she  can  talk ; 

And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you 
say  : 

But  you  talk  kindlier : we  esteem  you 
for  it.  — 

He  seems  a gracious  and  a gallant 
Prince, 

I would  he  had  our  daughter  : for  the 
rest, 

Our  own  detention,  why,  the  causes 
weigh’d, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


+19 


Fatherly  fears  — you  used  us  cour- 
teously — 

We  would  do  much  to  gratify  your 
Prince  — 

We  pardon  it;  and  for  your  ingress 
here 

Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair 
land, 

You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the 
night, 

Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  plough- 
man’s head, 

Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss’d  the 
milking-maid, 

Nor  robb’d  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of 
cream : 

But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word 
upon  it, 

He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to 
our  lines, 

And  speak  with  Arac : Arac’s  word 
is  thrice 

As  ours  with  Ida  : something  may  be 
done  — 

I know  not  what  — and  ours  shall  see 
us  friends. 

You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so 
you  will, 

Follow  us  : who  knows  ? we  four  may 
build  some  plan 

Foursquare  to  opposition.” 

Here  he  reach’d 

White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire, 
who  growl’d 

An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in  his 
beard,' 

Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to 
go. 

Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king 
across  the  lawns 

Beneath  huge  trees,  a thousand  rings 
of  Spring 

In  every  bole,  a song  on  every  spray 

Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines, 
and  woke 

Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of 
love 

In  the  old  king’s  ears,  who  promised 
help,  and  oozed 

All  o’er  with  honey’d  answer  as  we 
rode 


And  blossom-fragrant  slipt  the  heavy 
dews 

Gather’d  by  night  and  peace,  with 
each  light  air 

On  our  mail’d  heads : but  other 

thoughts  than  Peace 

Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  em- 
battled squares, 

And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  tramp- 
ling the  flowers 

With  clamor : for  among  them  rose  a 
cry 

As  if  to  greet  the  king;  they  made  a 
halt ; 

The  horses  yell’d ; they  clash’d  their 
arms  ; the  drum 

Beat;  merrily -blowing  shrill’d  the 
martial  fife  ; 

And  in  tKe  blast  and  bray  of  the  long 
horn 

And  serpent-throated  bugle, undulated 

The  banner  : anon  to  meet  us  lightly 
pranced 

Three  captains  out;  nor  ever  had  I 
seen 

Such  thews  of  men  : the  midmost  and 
the  highest 

Was  Arac : all  about  his  motion 
clung 

The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 

Of  the  East,  that  play’d  upon  then), 
made  them  glance 

Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy 
Giant’s  zone, 

That  glitter  burnish’d  by  the  frosty 
dark  ; 

And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue, 

And  bickers  into  red  and  emerald, 
shone 

Their  morions,  wash’d  with  morning, 
as  they  came. 

And  I that  prated  peace,  when  first 
I heard 

War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of 
of  force, 

Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a 
man, 

Stir  in  me  as  to  strike : then  took  the 
king 

His  three  broad  sons ; with  now  a 
wandering  hand 


420 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


And  now  a pointed  finger, told  them  all : 

A common  light  of  smiles  at  our  dis- 
guise 

Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the 
windy  jest 

Had  labor’d  down  within  his  ample 
lungs, 

The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roll’d  himself 

Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in 
words. 

“ Our  land  invaded,  ’sdeath  ! and  he 
himself 

Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not 
war : 

And,  ’sdeath ! myself,  what  care  I, 
war  or  no  ? 

But  then  this  question  of  your  troth 
remains  : 

And  there’s  a downright  honest  mean- 
ing in  her ; 

She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high  ! 
and  yet 

She  ask’d  but  space  and  fairplay  for 
her  scheme ; 

She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me  — I my- 
self, 

What  know  I of  these  things  1 but, 
life  and  soul ! 

I thought  her  half-right  talking  of  her 
wrongs ; 

I say  she  flies  too  high,  ’sdeath  ! what 
of  that  ? 

I take  her  for  the  flower  of  woman- 
kind, 

And  so  I often  told  her,  right  or  wrong, 

And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those 
she  loves. 

And,  right  or  wrong,  I care  not : this 
is  all, 

I stand  upon  her  side  : she  made  me 
swear  it  — 

’Sdeath  — and  with  solemn  rites  by 
candlelight  — 

Swear  by  St.  something  — I forget 
her  name  — 

Her  that  talk’d  down  the  fifty  wisest 
men  ; 

She  was  a princess  too  ; and  so  I 
swore. 

Come,  this  is  all ; she  will  not : waive 
your  claim 


If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else, 
at  once 

Decides  it,  ’sdeath ! against  my 
father’s  will.” 

I lagg’d  in  answer  loth  to  render  up 

My  precontract,  and  loth  by  brainless 
war 

To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper 
yet; 

Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half 
aside 

And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his 
lip, 

To  prick  us  on  to  combat  ‘‘Like  to 
like ! 

The  woman’s  garment  hid  the 
woman’s  heart.” 

A taunt  that  clench’d  his  purpose 
like  a blow ! 

For  fiery-short  was  Cyril’s  counter-^ 
scoff, 

And  sharp  I answer’d,  touch’d  upon 
the  point 

Where  idle  boys  are  cowards  to  their 
shame, 

“ Decide  it  here : why  not  1 we  are 
three  to  three.” 

Then  spake  the  third  “ But  three  to 
three  1 no  more  ? 

No  more,  and*Sn  our  noble  sister’s 
cause  ? 

More,  more,  for  honor : every  captain 
waits 

Hungry  for  honor,  angry’for  his  king. 

More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a side,  that 
each 

May  breathe  himself,  and  quick ! by 
overthrow 

Of  these  or  those,  the  question  set- 
tled die.” 

“Yea,”  answer’d  I,  “for  this  wild 
wreath  of  air, 

This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the 
highest 

Foam  of  men’s  deeds  — this  honor,  if 
ye  will. 

It  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 

Since,  what  decision  ? if  we  fail,  we 
fail, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


421 


And  if  we  win,  we  fail : she  would  not 
keep 

Her  compact.”  “ ’Sdeath ! but  we 
will  send  to  her,” 

Said  Arac,  “ worthy  reasons  why  she 
should 

Bide  by  this  issue : let  our  missive  thro’, 

And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by 
the  word.” 

“ Boys  ! ” shriek’d  the  old  king,  but 
vainlier  than  a hen 

To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool; 
for  none 

Regarded ; neither  seem’d  there  more 
to  say : 

Back  rode  we  to  my  father’s  camp, 
and  found 

He  thrice  had  sent  a herald  to  the 
gates, 

To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our 
claim, 

Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 

With  her  own  people’s  life : three 
times  he  went : 

The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none 
appear’d : 

He  batter’d  at  the  doors  ; none  came  : 
the  next, 

An  awful  voice  within  had  warn’d 
him  thence  : 

The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters 
of  the  plough 

Came  sallying  thro’  the  gates,  and 
caught  his  hair, 

And  so  belabor’d  him  on  rib  and 
cheek 

They  made  him  wild : not  less  one 
glance  he  caught 

Thro’  open  doors  of  Ida  station’d 
there 

Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose, 
firm 

Tho’  compass’d  by  two  armies  and 
the  noise 

Of  arms ; and  standing  like  a stately 
Pine 

Set  in  a cataract  on  an  island-crag, 

When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and 
right  and  left 

Suck’d  from  the  dark  heart  of  the 
long  hills  roll 


The  torrents,  dash’d  to  the  vale:  and 
yet  her  will 

Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I told  the  king  that  I 
was  pledged 

To  fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he 
clash’d 

His  iron  palms  together  with  a cry ; 

Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the 
lads : 

But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded 
lords 

With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and 
state,  perforce 

He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce 
demur : 

And  many  a bold  knight  started  up  in 
heat, 

And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim 
till  death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the 
field 

Flat  to  the  garden-wall : and  likewise 
here, 

Above  the  garden’s  glowing  blossom- 
belts, 

A column’d  entry  shone  and  marble 
stairs, 

And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss’d 
with  Tomyris 

And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight, 

But  now  fast  barr’d : so  here  upon 
the  flat 

All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were 
hammer’d  up, 

And  all  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and 
fro, 

With  message  and  defiance,  went  and 
came ; 

Last,  Ida’s  answer,  in  royal  hand, 

But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rol- 
ling words 

Oration-like.  I kiss’d  it  and  I read. 

“ O brother,  you  have  known  the 
pangs  we  felt, 

What  heats  of  indignation  when  we 
heard 

Of  those  that  iron-cramp’d  their 
women’s  feet ; 


422 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the 
poor  bride 

Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift 
a scourge ; 

Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the 
fire 

Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots; 
and  of  those,  — 

Mothers,  — that,  all  prophetic  pity, 
fling 

Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running, 
flood,  and  swoops 

The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the 
heart 

Made  for  all  noble  motion  : and  I saw 

That  equal  baseness;  lived  in  sleeker 
times 

With  smoother  men  : the  old  leaven 
leaven’d  all : 

Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for 
civil  rights, 

No  woman  named : therefore  I set 
my  face 

Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for 
mine  own. 

Far  off  from  men  I built  a fold  for 
them : 

I stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 

I fenced  it  round  with  gallant  insti- 
tutes, 

And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts 
of  prey 

And  prosper’d ; till  a rout  of  saucy 
boys 

Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr’d 
our  peace. 

Mask’d  like  our  maids,  blustering  I 
know  not  what 

Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext 
held 

Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my 
will 

Seal’d  not  the  bond  — the  striplings  ! 
— for  their  sport ! — 

I tamed  my  leopards : shall  I not 
tame  these  ? 

Or  you  1 or  I ? for  since  you  think  me 
touch’d 

In  honor  — what,  I would  not  aught 
of  false  — 

Is  not  our  cause  pure  ? and  whereas  I 
know 


Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what 
mother’s  blood 

You  draw  from,  fight ; you  failing,  I 
abide 

What  end  soever : fail  you  will  not. 
Still 

Take  not  his  life  : he  risk’d  it  for  my 
own ; 

His  mother  lives  : yet  whatsoe’er  you 
do, 

Fight  and  fight  well;  strike  and  strike 
home.  O dear 

Brothers,  the  woman’s  Angel  guards 
you,  you 

The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our 
cause, 

The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the 
aftertime, 

Your  very  armor  hallow’d,  and  your 
statues 

Rear’d,  sung  to,  when,  this  gad-fly 
brush’d  aside, 

We  plant  a solid  foot  into  the  Time, 

And  mould  a generation  strong  to 
move 

With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to 
right,  till  she 

Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children’s, 
know  herself ; 

And  Knowledge  in  our  own  land 
make  her  free, 

And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned 
twins, 

Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the 
fiery  grain 

Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that 
orbs 

Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern 
morn.” 

Then  came  a postscript  dash’d 
across  the  rest. 

“ See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your 
camp : 

We  seem  a nest  of  traitors  — none  to 
trust 

Since  our  arms  fail’d  — this  Egypt- 
plague  of  men ! 

Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their 
homes, 

Than  thus  man-girled  here : indeed  I 
think 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


423 


Dur  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 

Of  one  unworthy  mother ; which  she 
left : 

She  shall  not  have  it  back : the  child 
shall  grow 

To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her 
mind. 

I took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 

This  morning;  there  the  tender  orphan 
hands 

Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem’d  to  charm 
from  thence 

The  wrath  I nursed  against  the  world 
farewell.” 

I ceased ; he  said,  “ Stubborn,  but 
she  may  sit 

Upon  a king’s  right  hand  in  thunder- 
storms, 

And  breed  up  warriors ! See  now,  tho’ 
yourself 

Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to 
sloughs 

That  swallow  common  sense,  the 
spindling  king, 

This  Gama  swamp’d  in  lazy  tolerance. 

When  the  man  wants  weight,  the 
woman  takes  it  up, 

And  topples  down  the  scales;  but  this 
is  fixt 

As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of 
all; 

Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the 
hearth : 

Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle 
she  : 

Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with 
heart : 

Man  to  command  and  woman  to 
obey ; 

All  else  confusion.  Look  you!  the 
gray  mare 

Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny 
shrills 

From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small 
goodman 

Shrinks  in  his  axm-chair  while  the 
fires  of  Hell 

Mix  with  his  hearth  : but  you  — she’s 
yet  a colt  — 

Take,  break  her : strongly  groom’d  and 
straitly  curb’d 


She  might  not  rank  with  those  detest- 
able 

That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home, 
and  brawl 

Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs 
in  the  street. 

They  say  she’s  comely;  there’s  the 
fairer  chance : 

I like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at 
her ! 

Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we, 

But  suffers  change  of  frame.  A lusty 
brace 

Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly. 
Boy, 

The  bearing  and  training  of  a child 

Is  woman’s  wisdom  ” 

Thus  the  hard  old  king  : 

I took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly 
noon : 

I pored  upon  her  letter  which  I held. 

And  on  the  little  clause  “ take  not  his 
life : ” 

I mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the 
woods, 

And  on  the  “ Follow,  follow,  thoushalt 
win : ” 

I thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had 
said, 

And  how  the  strange  betrothment 
was  to  end : 

Then  I remember’d  that  burnt  sor- 
cerer’s curse 

That  one  should  fight  with  shadows 
and  should  fall ; 

And  like  a flash  the  weird  affection 
came : 

King,  camp  and  college  turn’d  to  hol- 
low shows ; 

I seem’d  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 

And  doing  battle  with  forgotten 
ghosts, 

To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a 
dream : 

And  ere  I woke  it  was  the  point  of 
noon, 

The  lists  were  ready.  Empanoplied 
and  plumed 

We  enter’d  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 

Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet 
blared 


424 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


At  the  barrier  like  a wild  horn  in  a 
land 

Of  echoes,  and  a moment,  and  once 
more 

The  trumpet,  and  again : at  which  the 
storm 

Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge 
of  spears 

And  riders  front  to  front,  until  they 
closed 

In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering 
points, 

And  thunder.  Yet  it  seem’d  a dream, 
I dream’d 

Of  fighting.  On  his  haunches  rose 
the  steed, 

And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the 
lance, 

And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang 
the  fire. 

Part  sat  like  rocks:  part  reel’d  but 
kept  their  seats : 

Part  roll’d  on  the  earth  and  rose 
again  and  drew: 

Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering 
horses  Down 

Prom  those  two  bulks  at  Arac’s  side, 
and  down 

Prom  Arac’s  arm,  as  from  a giant’s 
flail, 

The  large  blows  rain’d,  as  here  and 
everywhere 

He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ring- 
ing lists, 

And  all  the  plain,  — brand,  mace,  and 
shaft,  and  shield  — 

Shock’d,  like  an  iron-clanging  anvil 
bang’d 

With  hammers ; till  I thought,  can 
this  be  he 

From  Gama’s  dwarfish  loins  1 if  this 
be  so, 

The  mother  makes  us  most  — and  in 
my  dream 

I glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace- 
front 

Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies’ 
eyes, 

And  highest,  among  the  statues, 
statue-like, 

Between  a cymbal’d  Miriam  and  a 
Jael, 


With  Psyche’s  babe,  was  Ida  watch- 
ing us, 

A single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair, 

Like  a Saint’s  glory  up  in  heaven  . but 

she 

No  saint  — inexorable  — no  tender- 
ness — 

Too  hard,  too  cruel : yet  she  sees  me 
fight, 

Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall ! with  that  I 
drave 

Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a 
Prince, 

And  Cyril,  one.  Yea,  let  me  make 
my  dream 

All  that  I would.  But  that  large- 
moulded  man, 

His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a wake, 

Made  at  me  thro’  the  press,  and,  stag- 
gering back 

With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and 
horseman,  came 

As  comes  a pillar  of  electric  cloud, 

Playing  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the 
drains, 

And  shadowing  down  the  champaign 
till  it  strikes 

On  a wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 
cracks,  and  splits, 

And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a roar 
that  Earth 

Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry;  for 
everything 

Gave  way  before  him : only  Florian,  he 

That  loved  me  closer  than  his  own 
right  eye, 

Thrust  in  between;  but  Arac  rode 
him  down : 

And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push’d  against 
the  Prince, 

With  Psyche’s  color  round  his  helmet, 
tough, 

Strong,  supple,  sinew-corded,  apt  at 
arms ; 

But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that 
smote 

And  threw  him  : last  I spurr’d  ; I felt 
my  veins 

Stretch  with  fierce  heat;  a moment 
hand  to  hand, 

And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  to 
horse  we  hung, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


42b 


Till  I struck  out  and  shouted ; the 
blade  glanced, 

I did  but  shear  a feather,  and  dream 
and  truth 

Flow’d  from  me  ; darkness  closed  me  ; 
and  I fell. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  : 

She  nor  swoon’d,  nor  utter’d  cry  : 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

“ She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.” 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call’d  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 

“ Sweet  my  child,  I live  for  thee.” 

My  dream  had  never  died  or  lived 
again. 

As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I lay  ; 

Seeing  I saw  not,  hearing  not  I heard  : 

Tho’,  if  I saw  not,  yet  they  told  me 
all 

So  often  that  I speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem’d,  or  so  they  said  to 
me, 

That  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and 
more  strange ; 

That  when  our  side  was  vanquish’d 
and  my  cause 

For  ever  lost,  there  went  up  a great 
cry, 

The  Prince  is  slain.  My  father  heard 
and  ran 

In  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my 
casque 

And  grovell’d  on  my  body,  and  after 
him 

Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 

With  Psyche’s  babe  in  arm  : there  on 
the  roofs 

Like  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she 
sang. 


“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n : the 
seed, 

The  little  seed  they  laugh’d  at  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A thousand  arms  aud  rushes  to  the  Sun. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n  : they 
came; 

The  leaves  were  wet  with  women’s  tears : 
they  heard 

A noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand  ; 
They  mark’d  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the  fall, 
And  would  have  strown  it,  and  are  fall’n 
themselves. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n : they 
came, 

The  woodmen  with  their  axes  : lo  the  tree! 
But  we  will  make  it  faggots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  and 
floor, 

And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n : they 
struck; 

With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves, 
nor  knew 

There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain  : 

The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arms, 
Their  arms  were  shatter’d  to  the  shoulder 
blade. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  but  this  shall 
grow 

A night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power:  and 
roll’d 

With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the 
fangs 

Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

“ And  now,  O maids,  behold  our 
sanctuary 

Is  violate,  our  laws  broken : fear  we 
not 

To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof, 
whose  arms 

Champion’d  our  cause  and  won  it  with 
a day 

Blanch’d  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual 
feast, 

When  dames  and  heroines  of  the 
golden  year 

Shall  strip  a hundred  hollows  bare  of 
Spring, 

To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three  ; 
but  come, 

We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights 
are  won. 


426 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with 
coarse  mankind, 

111  nurses  ; but  descend,  and  proffer 
these 

The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause, 
that  there 

Lie  bruised  and  maim’d,  the  tender 
ministries 

Of  female  hands  and  hospitality.” 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet 
in  her  arms, 

Descending,  burst  the  great  bronze 
valves,  and  led 

A hundred  maids  in  train  across  the 
Park. 

Some  cowl’d,  and  some  bare-headed, 
on  they  came, 

Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest : 
by  them  went 

The  enamor’d  air  sighing,  and  on 
their  curls 

From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  waver- 
ing fell, 

And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of 
light 

Slided,  they  moving  under  shade  : but 
Blanche 

At  distance  follow’d  : so  they  came : 
anon 

Thro’  open  field  into  the  lists  they 
wound 

Timorously  ; and  as  the  leader  of  the 
herd 

That  holds  a stately  fretwork  to  the 
Sun, 

And  follow’d  up  by  a hundred  airy 
does, 

Steps  with  a tender  foot,  light  as  on 
air, 

The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated 
on 

To  where  her  wounded  brethren  lay ; 
there  stay’d ; 

Knelt  on  one  knee,  — the  child  on  one, 
— and  prest 

Their  hands,  and  call’d  them  dear 
deliverers, 

And  happy  warriors,  and  immortal 
names, 

And  said  “You  shall  not  lie  in  the 
tents  but  here, 


And  nursed  by  those  for  whom  you 
fought,  and  served 

With  female  hands  and  hospitality.” 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or 
was  it  chance, 

She  past  my  way.  Up  started  from 
my  side 

The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelp- 
less eye, 

Silent;  but  when  she  saw  me  lying 
stark, 

Dishelm’d  and  mute,  and  motionlessly 
pale, 

Cold  ev’n  to  her,  she  sigh’d ; and  when 
she  saw 

The  haggard  father’s  face  and  rev- 
erend beard 

Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the 
blood 

Of  his  own  son,  shudder’d,  a twitch  of 
pain 

Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o’er  her 
forehead  past 

A shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and 
she  said : 

“ He  saved  my  life  : my  brother  slew 
him  for  it.” 

No  more  : at  which  the  king  in  bitter 
scorn 

Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and 
the  tress, 

And  held  them  up : she  saw  them, 
and  a day 

Rose  from'the  distance  on  her  memory, 

When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother, 
shore  the  tress  - 

With  kisses,  ere  the  days  of  Lady 
Blanche : 

And  then  once  more  she  look’d  at  my 
pale  face : 

Till  understanding  all  the  foolish 
work 

Of  fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all, 

Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  her 
mind ; 

Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  her 
breast ; 

She  bow’d,  she  set  the  child  on  the 
earth ; she  laid 

A feeling  finger  on  my  brows,  and 
presently 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


427 


‘ 0 Sire,”  she  said,  “ he  lives  : he  is 
not  dead  : 

O let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren 
here 

In  our  own  palace : we  will  tend  on 
him 

Like  one  of  these:  if  so,  by  any 
means. 

To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks, 
that  make 

Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman’s 
goal.” 

She  said  : but  at  the  happy  word 
“ he  lives  ” 

My  father  stoop’d,  re-father’d  o’er  my 
wounds. 

So  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 

With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and 
evening  mixt 

Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche 
ever  stole 

A little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by 
us, 

Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden 
brede, 

Lay  like  a new-fall’n  meteor  on  the 
grass, 

Uncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and 
began 

A blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and 
to  dance 

Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  inno- 
cent arms 

And  lazy  lingering  fingers.  She  the 
appeal 

Brook’d  not,  but  clamoring  out  “ Mine 
— mine  — not  yours, 

It  is  not  yours,  but  mine : give  me  the 
child  ” 

Ceased  all  on  tremble  : piteous  was 
the  cry : 

So  stood  the  unhappy  mother  open- 
mouth’d, 

And  turn’d  each  face  her  way : wan 
was  her  cheek 

With  hollow  watch,  her  blooming 
mantle  torn, 

Red  grief  and  mother’s  hunger  in  her 
eye, 

And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls, 
and  half 


The  sacred  mother’s  bosom,  panting, 
burst 

The  laces  toward  her  babe ; but  she 
nor  cared 

Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida 
heard, 

Look’d  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me, 
stood 

Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her 
glance 

The  mother,  me,  the  child;  but  he 
that  lay 

Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter’d  as  he  was, 

Trail’d  himself  up  on  one  knee : then 
he  drew 

Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  down 
she  look’d 

At  the  arm’d  man  sideways,  pitying 
as  it  seem’d, 

Or  self-involved ; but  when  she  learnt 
his  face, 

Remembering  his  ill-omen’d  song, 
arose 

Once  more  thro’  all  her  height,  and 
o’er  him  grew 

Tall  as  a figure  lengthen’d  on  the  sand 

When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and 
he  said : 

“ 0 fair  and  strong  and  terrible ! 
Lioness 

That  with  your  long  locks  play  the 
Lion’s  mane ! 

But  Lovj  and  Nature,  these  are  two 
nore  terrible 

And  stronger.  See,  your  foot  is  on 
our  necks, 

We  vanquish’d,  you  the  Victor  of 
your  will. 

What  would  you  more?  give  her  the 
child ! remain 

Orb’d  in  your  isolation  : he  is  dead, 

Or  all  as  dead  : henceforth  we  let  you 
be  : 

Win  you  the  hearts  of  women ; and 
beware 

Lest,  where  you  seek  the  common 
love  of  these, 

The  common  hate  with  the  revolving- 
wheel 

Should  drag  you  down,  and  some 
great  Nemesis 


428 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Break  from  a darken’d  future,  erown’d 
with  fire, 

And  tread  you  out  for  ever  : but  liow- 
soe’er 

Fix’d  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own 
arms 

To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to 
her, 

Give  her  the  child ! 0 if,  I say,  you 

keep 

One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if 
you  loved 

The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dan- 
dled you, 

Or  own  one  port  of  sense  not  flint  to 
prayer, 

Give  her  the  child ! or  if  you  scorn 
to  lay  it, 

Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt 
with  yours, 

Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her 
one  fault 

The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could 
not  kill, 

Give  me  it:  I will  give  it  her.” 

He  said : 

At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation 
roll’d 

Dry  flame,  she  listening;  after  sank 
and  sank 

And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellow- 
ing, dwelt 

Full  on  the  child ; she  took  it : 
“ Pretty  bud ! 

Lily  of  the  vale ! half  open’d  bell  of 
the  woods ! 

Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when 
a world 

Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  sys- 
tem made 

No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 

Pledge  of  a love  not  to  be  mine, 
farewell ; 

These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old, 

We  two  must  part : and  yet  how  fain 
was  I 

To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in 
mine,  to  think 

I might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I 
felt 

Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren 
breast 


In  the  dead  prime  : but  may  thy 
mother  prove 

As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to 
me ! 

And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the 
yoke,  I wish  it 

Gentle  as  freedom  ” — here  she  kiss’d 
it : then  — 

“ All  good  go  with  thee ! take  it,  Sir,” 
and  so 

Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed 
hands, 

Who  turn’d  half-round  to  Psyche  as 
she  sprang 

To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in 
thanks ; 

Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from 
head  to  foot, 

And  hugg’d  and  never  hugg’d  it  close 
enough, 

And  in  her  hunger  mouth’d  and  mum- 
bled it, 

And  hid  her  bosom  with  it ; after  that 

Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppli- 
antly : 

“We  two  were  friends : I go  to 
mine  own  land 

For  ever : find  some  other : as  for  me 

I scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans  : 
yet  speak  to  me, 

Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  part 
forgiven.” 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the 
child. 

Then  Arac.  “Ida  — ’sdeath  ! you 
blame  the  man ; 

You  wrong  yourselves  — the  woman 
is  so  hard 

Upon  the  woman.  Come,  a grace  to 
me ! 

I am  your  warrior:  I and  mine  have 
fought 

Your  battle:  kiss  her;  take  her  hand, 
she  weeps : 

’Sdeath!  I would  sooner  fight  thrice 
o’er  than  see  it.” 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  gazing  on  the 
ground, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


429 


And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his 
chin, 

And  moved  beyond  his  custom,  Gama 
said  : 

“ I’ve  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the 
blood, 

And  I believe  it.  Not  one  word  ? not 
one  'i 

Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper  ? 
not  from  me, 

Not  from  your  mother,  now  a saint 
with  saints. 

She  said  you  had  a heart  — I heard 
her  say  it  — 

‘ Our  Ida  has  a heart’  — just  ere  she 
died  — 

‘ But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 

Be  near  her  still  ’ and  I — I sought 
for  one  — 

All  people  said  she  had  authority  — 

The  Lady  Blanche : much  profit ! 

Not  one  word ; 

No ! tho’  your  father  sues : see  how 
you  stand 

Stiff  as  Lot’s  wife,  and  all  the  good 
knights  maim’d, 

I trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to 
death, 

For  your  wild  whim : and  was  it  then 
for  this, 

Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up, 

Where  we  withdrew  from  summer 
heats  and  state, 

And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath 
the  planes, 

And  many  a pleasant  hour  with  her 
that’s  gone, 

Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us  ? Is  it 
kind  1 

Speak  to  her  I say : is  this  not  she  of 
whom, 

When  first  she  came,  all  flush’d  you 
said  to  me 

Now  had  you  got  a friend  of  your 
own  age, 

Now  could  you  share  your  thought ; 
now  should  men  see 

Two  women  faster  welded  in  one 
love 

Than  pairs  of  wedlock ; she  you 
walk’d  with,  she 


You  talk’d  with,  whole  nights  long,  up 
in  the  tower, 

Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth, 

And  right  ascension,  Heaven  knows 
what ; and  now 

A word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly 
word, 

Not  one  to  spare  her : out  upon  you, 
flint ! 

You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any ; 
nay, 

You  shame  your  mother’s  judgment 
too.  Not  one  ? 

You  will  notl  well  — no  heart  have 
you,  or  such 

As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a nut 

Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitter- 
ness.” 

So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond 
his  wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain’d  of 
her  force 

By  many  a varying  influence  and  so 
long. 

Down  thro’  her  limbs  a drooping  lan- 
guor wept : 

Her  head  a little  bent ; and  on  her 
mouth 

A doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a clouded 
moon 

In  a still  water : then  brake  out  my 
sire, 

Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my 
wounds.  “ O you, 

Woman,  whom  we  thought  woman 
even  now, 

And  were  half  fool’d  to  let  you  tend 
our  son, 

Because  he  might  have  wish’d  it  — 
but  we  see 

The  accomplice  of  your  madness  un 
forgiven, 

And  think  that  you  might  mix  his 
draught  with  death, 

When  your  skies  change  again  : the 
rougher  hand 

Is  safer : on  to  the  tents : take  up  the 
Prince.” 

He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  was 
prick’d  to  attend 


430 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


A tempest,  thro’  the  cloud  that 
riimm’d  her  broke 

A genial  warmth  and  light  once 
more,  and  shone 

Thro’  glittering  drops  on  her  sad 
friend. 

“ Come  hither, 

0 Psyche,”  she  cried  out,  “ embrace 

me,  come 

Quick  while  I melt ; make  reconcile- 
ment sure 

With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind 
an  hour : 

Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander 
so  ! 

Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children 
being  chid ! 

1 seem  no  more : I want  forgiveness 

too : 

I should  have  had  to  do  with  none 
but  maids, 

That  have  no'  links  with  men.  Ah 
false  but  dear, 

Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why  ? — 
why  ? — Yet  see, 

Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you 
yet  once  more 

With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 

And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  O sire, 

Grant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,  to  wait 
upon  him, 

Like  mine  own  brother.  Por  my  debt 
to  him, 

This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I 
know  it ; 

Taunt  me  no  more : yourself  and 
yours  shall  have 

Free  adit ; we  will  scatter  all  our 
maids 

Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper 
hearth  : 

What  use  to  keep  them  here  — now  ? 
grant  my  prayer. 

Help,  father,  brother,  help  ; speak  to 
the  king : 

Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch 
of  that 

Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and 
drags  me  down 

From  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up 
with  all 


The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  woman- 
kind, 

Poor  weakling  ev’n  as  they  are.” 

Passionate  tears 

Follow’d  : the  king  replied  not : Cyril 
said  : 

“Your  brother,  Lady  — Florian, — 
ask  for  him 

Of  your  great  head  — for  he  is 
wounded  too  — 

That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 
prince.” 

“ Ay  so,”  said  Ida  with  a bitter  smile, 

“ Our  laws  are  broken : let  him  enter 
too.” 

Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mourn- 
ful song, 

And  had  a cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 

Petition’d  too  for  him.  “ Ay  so,”  she 
said, 

“I  stagger  in  the  stream : I cannot  keep 

My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling 
hour : 

We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let 
it  be.” 

“ Ay  so  J ” said  Blanche  : “ Amazed 
am  I to  hear 

Your  Highness : but  your  Highness 
breaks  with  ease 

The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make  : 
’twas  I. 

I had  been  wedded  wife,  I knew  man- 
kind, 

And  block’d  them  out ; but  these  men 
came  to  woo 

Your  Highness  — verily  I think  to 
win.” 

So  she,  and  turn’d  askance  a wintry 
eye: 

But  Ida  with  a voice,  that  like  a bell 

Toll’d  by  an  earthquake  in  a trembling 
tower, 

Rang  ruin,  answer’d  full  of  grief  and 
scorn. 

“ Fling  our  doors  wide ! all,  all,  not 
one,  but  all, 

Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother’s  soul, 

Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend 
or  foe, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


431 


Shall  enter,  if  he  will.  Let  our  girls 
flit, 

Till  the  storm  die  ! but  had  you  stood 
by  us, 

The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from 
his  base 

Had  left  us  rock.  She  fain  would 
sting  us  too, 

But  shall  not.  Pass,  and  mingle  with 
your  likes. 

We  brook  no  further  insult  but  are 
gone.” 

She  turn’d ; the  very  nape  of  her 
white  neck 

Was  rosed  with  indignation  : but  the 
Prince 

Her  brother  came ; the  king  her  father 
charm’d 

Her  wounded  soul  with  words : nor 
did  mine  own 

Refuse  her  proffer,  lastly  gave  his 
hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead 
weights,  and  bare 

Straight  to  the  doors:  to  them  the 
doors  gave  way 

Groaning,  and  in  the  Vestal  entry 
shriek’d 

The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels : 

And  on  they  moved  and  gain’d  the 
hall,  and  there 

Rested  . but  great  the  crush  was,  and 
each  base, 

To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 
drown’d 

In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 

Of  female  whisperers : at  the  further 
end 

Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great 
cats 

Close  by  her,  like  supporters  on  a 
shield, 

Bow-back’d  with  fear : but  in  the  cen- 
tre stood 

The  common  men  with  rolling  eyes ; 
amazed 

They  glared  upon  the  women,  and 
aghast 

The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent, 
save 


When  armor  clash’d  or  jingled, 
while  the  day, 

Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall, 
and  shot 

A flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and 
steel, 

That  o’er  the  statues  leapt  from  head 
to  head, 

Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas  on  the 
helm, 

Now  set  a wrathful  Dian’s  moon  on 
flame, 

And  now  and  then  an  echo  started 
up, 

And  shuddering  fled  from  room  to 
room,  and  died 

Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 

Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 

And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs, 
and  thro’ 

The  long-laid  galleries  past  a hundred 
doors 

To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from 
sound,  and  due 

To  languid  limbs  and  sickness ; left 
me  in  it; 

And  others  otherwhere  they  laid;  and 
all 

That  afternoon  a sound  arose  of  hoof 

And  chariot,  many  a maiden  passing 
home 

Till  happier  times ; but  some  were  left 
of  those 

Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out 
and  in, 

From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside 
the  walls, 

Walked  at  their  will,  and  everything 
was  chang’d. 

VII. 

Ask  me  no  more : the  moon  may  draw  the 
sea; 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and 
take  the  shape 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 

But  O too  fond,  when  have  I answer’d  thee? 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more : what  answer  should  I 
give? 

I love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 

Yet,  O my  friend,  I will  not  have  thee  die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I should  bid  thee  live; 

Ask  me  no  more. 


432 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Ask  me  no  more : thy  fate  and  mine  are 
seal’d  : 

I strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain : 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  : 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a touch  I yield; 

Ask  me  no  more. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated, 

So  their  fair  college  turn’d  to  hos- 
pital ; 

At  first  with  all  confusion : by  and 

by 

Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other 
laws : 

A kindlier  influence  reign’d ; and 
everywhere 

Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 

Hung  round  the  sick : the  maidens 
came,  they  talk’d, 

They  sang,  they  read : till  she  not  fair 
began 

To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  be- 
came 

Her  former  beauty  treble ; and  to  and 
fro 

With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel 
offices, 

Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious 
act, 

And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they 
moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell, 

And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent 
with  shame. 

Old  studies  fail’d ; seldom  she  spoke  : 
but  oft 

Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone 
for  hours 

On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of 
men 

Darkening  her  female  field  : void  was 
her  use, 

And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a peak  to 
gaze 

O’er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a great 
black  cloud 

Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a wall 
of  night, 

Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge 
to  shore, 

And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from 
the  sand, 


And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn 
by  tarn 

Expunge  the  world : so  fared  she  gaz- 
ing there ; 

So  blacken’d  all  her  world  in  secret, 
blank 

And  waste  it  seem’d  and  vain  ; till 
down  she  came, 

And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among 
the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn’d ; and  morn  by 
morn  the  lark 

Shot  up  and  shrill’d  in  flickering  gyres, 
but  I 

Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life  : 

And  twilight  gloom’d ; and  broader- 
grown  the  bowers 

Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves, 
and  Heaven, 

Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ; but  I, 

Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could 
reach  me,  lay 

Quite  sunder’d  from  the  moving  Uni- 
verse, 

Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor 
the  hand 

That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in 
their  sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian  : with 
her  oft, 

Melissa  came  ; for  Blanche  had  gone, 
but  left 

Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should 
keep 

Court-favor  • here  and  there  the  small 
bright  head, 

A light  of  healing,  glanced  about  the 
couch, 

Or  thro’  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 

Peep’d,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded 
man 

With  blush  and  smile,  a medicine  in 
themselves 

To  wile  the  length  from  languorous 
hours,  and  draw 

The  sting  from  pain ; nor  seem’d  it 
strange  that  soon 

He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fair 
charities 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


433 


Join’d  at  her  side ; nor  stranger  seem’d 
that  hearts 

So  gentle,  so  employ’d,  should  close 
in  love, 

Than  when  two  dewdrops  on  the  petal 
shake 

To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble 
deeper  down, 

And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit 
obtain’d 

At  first  with  Psyche.  Not  tho’  Blanche 
had  sworn 

That  after  that  dark  night  among  the 
fields 

She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own 
good  name ; 

Not  tho’  he  built  upon  the  babe  re- 
stored ; 

Nor  tho’  she  liked  him,  yielded  she, 
but  fear’d 

To  incense  the  Head  once  more ; till 
on  a day 

When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 

Seen  but  of  Psyche  : on  her  foot  she 
hung 

A moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which 
her  face 

A little  flush’d,  and  she  past  on  ; but 
each 

Assumed  from  thence  a half-consent 
involved 

In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were 
at  peace. 

Nor  only  these : Love  in  the  sacred 
halls 

Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 

With  showers  of  random  sweet  on 
maid  and  man. 

Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my 
claim, 

Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled  ; nor 
yet 

Did  those  twin  brothers,  risen  again 
and  whole  ; 

Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she 
sat : 


Then  came  a change ; for  sometimes 
I would  catch 

Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a viper  off,  and  shriek 
“You  are  not  Ida;”  clasp  it  once  again, 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho’  I know  her  not, 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony, 
And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which 
seem’d  a truth : 

And  still  she  fear’d  that  I should  lose 
my  mind, 

And  often  she  believed  that  I should 
die  : 

Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care, 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary 
noons, 

And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark, 
when  clocks 

Throbb’d  thunder  thro’  the  palace 
floors,  or  call’d 

On  flying  Time  from  all  their  silver 
tongues  — 

And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier 
days, 

And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father’s 
grief, 

And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in 
heart  — 

And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken 
love, 

And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter’d 
dream, 

And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless 
hands, 

And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted 
cheek  — 

From  all  a closer  interest  flourish’d  up, 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last, 
to  these, 

Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung 
with  tears 

By  some  cold  morning  glacier ; frail 
at  first 

And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself, 
But  such  as  gather’d  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I woke  sane,  but  well-nigh  close 
to  death 

For  weakness  : it  was  evening  : silent 
light 

Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein 
were  wrought 


434 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


Two  grand  designs ; for  on  one  side 
arose 

The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and 
storm’d 

At  the  Oppian  law.  Titanic  shapes, 
they  cramm’d 

The  forum,  and  half-crush’d  among 
the  rest 

A dwarf-like  Cato  cower’d.  On  the 
other  side 

Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax ; be- 
hind, 

A train  of  dames : by  axe  and  eagle 
sat, 

With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in 
Roman  scowls, 

And  half  the  wolf’s-milk  curdled  in 
their  veins, 

The  fierce  triumvirs ; and  before  them 
paused 

Hortensia  pleading:  angry  was  her 
face. 

I saw  the  forms  : I knew  not  where 
I was  : 

They  did  but  look  like  hollow  shows ; 
nor  more 

Sweet  Ida  : palm  to  palm  she  sat : the 
dew 

Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her 
shape 

And  rounder  seem’d : I moved : I 
sigh’d  : a touch 

Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon 
my  hand : 

Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 

Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what 
life  I had, 

And  like  a flower  that  cannot  all  un- 
fold, 

So  drench’d  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the 
sun, 

Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I on 
her 

Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter’d  wliis- 
peringly  : 

“ If  you  be,  what  I think  you,  some 
sweet  dream, 

I would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself : 

But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I knew. 


I ask  you  nothing  : only,  if  a dream, 

Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.  I shall  die 
to-night. 

Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I 
die.” 

I could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in 
trance, 

That  hears  his  burial  talk’d  of  by  his 
friends, 

And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor 
make  one  sign, 

But  lies  and  dreads  his  doom.  She 
turn’d  ; she  paused  ; 

She  stoop’d  ; and  out  of  languor  leapt 
a cry ; 

Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of 
death ; 

And  I believed  that  in  the  living  world 

My  spirit  closed  with  Ida’s  at  the  lips  ; 

Till  back  I fell,  and  from  mine  arms 
she  rose 

Glowing  all  over  noble  shame  ; and  all 

Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a 
robe, 

And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her 
mood 

Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when 
she  came 

From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all 
with  love ; 

And  down  the  streaming  crystal 
dropt ; and  she 

Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides, 

Naked,  a double  light  in  air  and  wave, 

To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they 
deck’d  her  out 

For  worship  without  end ; nor  end  of 
mine, 

Stateliest,  for  thee ! but  mute  she 
glided  forth, 

Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I sank 
and  slept, 

Fill’d  thro’  and  thro’  with  Love,  a 
happy  sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I woke:  she,  near 
me,  held 

A volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land  : 

There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she 
read. 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


435 


•‘Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the 
white ; 

Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  tin  in  the  porphyry  font : 
The  iire-fly  wakens : waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like  a 
ghost, 

And  like  a ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 

So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me.” 

I heard  her  turn  the  page;  she 
found  a small 

Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low, 
she  read : 

“ Come  down,  O maid,  from  yonder  moun- 
tain height : 

What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd 
sang) 

In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and 
cease 

To  glide  a sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 

To  sit  a star  upon  the  sparkling  spire; 

And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him  ; by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 

Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats, 

Or  foxlike  in  the  vine;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  silver  horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors  : 

But  follow;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley ; let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and 
spill 

Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water- 
smoke, 

That  like  a broken  purpose  waste  in  air : 

So  waste  not  thou ; but  come ; for  all  the  vales 
Await  thee;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro’  the  lawn, 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 

And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees.” 

So  she  low-toned ; while  with  shut 
eyes  I lay 


Listening;  then  look’d.  Pale  was  the 
perfect  face; 

The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor’d; 
and  meek 

Seem’d  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the 
luminous  eyes, 

And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand. 
She  said 

Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had 
fail’d 

In  sweet  humility ; had  fail’d  in  all  ; 

That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a block 

Left  in  the  quarry ; but  she  still  were 
loth, 

She  still  were  loth  to  yield  herself  to 
one 

That  wholly  scorn’d  to  help  their 
equal  rights 

Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbar- 
ous laws. 

She  pray’d  me  not  to  judge  their 
cause  from  her 

That  wrong’d  it,  sought  far  less  for 
truth  than  power 

In  knowledge  : something  wild  within 
her  breast, 

A greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat 
her  down. 

And  she  had  nursed  me  there  from 
week  to  week : 

Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time. 
In  part 

It  was  ill  counsel  had  misled  the  girl 

To  vex  true  hearts : yet  was  she  but  a 
girl  — 

“ Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a Queen 
of  farce ! 

When  comes  another  such  ? never,  I 
think, 

Till  the  Sun  drop,  dead,  from  the 
signs.” 

Her  voice 

Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon 
her  hands, 

And  her  great  heart  thro’  all  the 
faultful  Past 

Went  sorrowing  in  a pause  I dared 
not  break ; 

Till  notice  of  a change  in  the  dark 
world 

Was  lispt  about  the  acacias,  and  a 
bird, 


436 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 

Sent  from  a dewy  breast  a cry  for 
light : 

She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume 
fell. 

“Blame  not  thyself  too  much,”  I 
said,  “ nor  blame 

Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  bar- 
barous laws ; 

These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the 
world  till  now. 

Henceforth  thou  hast  a helper,  me, 
that  know 

The  woman’s  cause  is  man’s : they 
rise  or  sink 

Together,  dwarf’d  or  godlike,  bond  or 
free : 

For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with 
man 

The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares 
with  man 

His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him 
to  one  goal, 

Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her 
hands  — 

If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miser- 
able, 

How  shall  men  grow  ? but  work  no 
more  alone ! 

Our  place  is  much  : as  far  as  in  us  lies 

We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aid- 
ing her  — 

Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 

That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag 
her  down  — 

Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out 
of  all 

Within  her — let  her  make  herself 
her  own 

To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and 
be 

All  that  not  harms  distinctive  woman- 
hood. 

For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 

But  diverse : could  we  make  her  as 
the  man, 

Sweet  Love  were  slain  : his  dearest 
bond  is  this, 

Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they 
grow; 


The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of 
man ; 

He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral 
height, 

Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that 
throw  the  world  ; 

She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  child- 
ward  care, 

Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger 
mind ; 

Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words  ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of 
Time, 

Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ’d  in  all 
their  powers, 

Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing 
each, 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  ev’n  as  those  who 
love. 

Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back 
to  men : 

Then  reign  the  world’s  great  bridals, 
chaste  and  calm : 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of 
human-kind. 

May  these  things  be ! ” 

Sighing  she  spoke  “I  fear 
They  will  not.” 

“ Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud 
watchword  rest 

Of  equal ; seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal : each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought 
in  thought, 

Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they 
grow, 

The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell’d  heart  beating,  with  one 
full  stroke, 

Life.” 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke : “ A 

dream 

That  once  was  mine ! what  woman 
taught  you  this  ? ” 

“ Alone,”  I said,  “from  earlier  than 
I know. 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


437 


Immersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of 
the  world, 

I loved  the  woman  : he,  that  doth  not, 
lives 

A drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet 
self, 

Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than 
death, 

Or  keeps  his  wing’d  affections  dipt 
with  crime  : 

Yet  was  there  one  thro’  whom  I loved 
her,  one 

Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  house- 
hold ways, 

Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender 
wants, 

No  Angel,  but  a dearer  being,  all 
dipt 

In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Para- 
dise, 

Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and 
men, 

Who  look’d  all  native  to  her  place, 
and  yet 

On  tiptoe  seem’d  to  touch  upon  a 
sphere 

Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male 
minds  perforce 

Sway’d  to  her  from  their  orbits  as 
they  moved, 

And  girdled  her  with  music.  Happy 
he 

With  such  a mother  ! faith  in  woman- 
kind 

Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all 
things  high 

Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho’  he  trip 
and  "fall 

He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay.” 
“ But  I,” 

Said  Ida,  tremulously,  “ so  all  un- 
like — 

It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself 
with  words : 

This  mother  is  your  model.  I have 
heard 

Of  your  strange  doubts : they  well 
might  be  : I seem 

A mockery  to  my  own  self.  Never, 
Prince ; 

You  cannot  love  me.” 

“ Nay  but  thee,”  I said 


“ From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pic- 
tured eyes, 

Ere  seen  I loved,  and  loved  thee  seen, 
and  saw 

Thee  woman  tliro’  the  crust  of  iron 
moods 

That  mask’d  thee  from  men’s  rever- 
ence up,  and  forced 

Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boy- 
hood: now, 

Giv’n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro’ 
thee, 

Indeed  I love : the  new  day  comes,  the 
light 

Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for 
faults 

Lived  over : lift  thine  eyes ; my  doubts 
are  dead, 

My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows  : 
the  change, 

This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill’d 
it.  Dear, 

Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on 
mine, 

Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind 
half-world  ; 

Approach  and  fear  not ; breathe  upon 
my  brows; 

In  that  fine  air  I tremble,  all  the  past 

Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour, 
and  this 

Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to- 
come 

Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  wood- 
land reels 

Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds. 
Forgive  me, 

I waste  my  heart  in  signs : let  be.  My 
bride, 

My  wife,  my  life.  O we  will  walk  this 
world, 

Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 

And  so  thro’  those  dark  gates  across 
the  wild 

That  no  man  knows.  Indeed  I love 
thee : come, 

Yield  thyself  up : my  hopes  and  thine 
are  one  : 

Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and 
thyself ; 

Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and 
trust  to  me.” 


438 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


CONCLUSION. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I give 
you  all 

The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it 
rose : 

The  words  are  mostly  mine ; for  when 
we  ceased 

There  came  a minute’s  pause,  and 
Walter  said, 

“ I wish  she  had  not  yielded ! ” then  to 
me, 

“ What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically  ! ” 

So  pray’d  the  men,  the  women : I gave 
assent : 

Yet  how  to  bind  the.scatter’d  scheme 
of  seven 

Together  in  one  sheaf  ? What  style 
could  suit  ? 

The  men  required  that  I should  give 
throughout 

The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque, 

With  which  we  banter’d  little  Lilia 
first : 

The  women  — and  perhaps  they  felt 
their  power, 

For  something  in  the  ballads  which 
they  sang, 

Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat, 

Had  ever  seem’d  to  wrestle  with  bur- 
lesque, 

And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a solemn 
close  — 

They  hated  banter,  wish’d  for  some- 
thing real, 

A gallant  fight,  a noble  princess  — 
why 

Not  make  her  true-heroic  — true- 
sublime  1 

Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the 
close  ? 

Which  yet  with  such  a framework 
scarce  could  be. 

Then  rose  a little  feud  betwixt  the 
two, 

Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists  : 

And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please 
them  both, 

And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 

I moved  as  in  a strange  diagonal, 

And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself 
nor  them. 


But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took 
no  part 

In  our  dispute  : the  sequel  of  the  tale 

Had  touch’d  her ; and  she  sat,  she 
pluck’d  the  grass, 

She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking  : last, 
she  fixt 

A showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and 
said, 

“You  — tell  us  what  we  are”  who 
might  have  told, 

For  she  was  cramm’d  with  theories 
out  of  books, 

But  that  there  rose  a shout : the  gates 
were  closed 

At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarm- 
ing now, 

To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden 
rails. 

So  I and  some  went  out  to  these  : 
we  climb’d 

The  slope  to  Yivian-place,  and  turn- 
ing saw 

The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and 
half 

Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a land 
of  peace; 

Gray  halls  alone  among  their  massive 
groves ; 

Trim  hamlets  ; here  and  there  a rustic 
tower 

Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths 
of  wheat ; 

The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a stream : 
the  seas ; 

A red  sail,  or  a white ; and  far  be- 
yond, 

Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts 
of  France. 

“ Look  there,  a garden  ! ” said  my 
college  friend, 

The  Tory  member’s  elder  son,  “ and 
there ! 

God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps 
her  off, 

And  keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within 
herself, 

A nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the 
ruled  — 

Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a 
faith, 


THE  PRINCESS;  A MEDLEY. 


439 


Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves 
have  made. 

Some  patient  force  to  change  them 
when  we  will, 

Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the 
crowd  — 

But  yonder,  whiff ! there  comes  a sud- 
den heat, 

The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his 
head, 

The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will 
not  fight, 

The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and 
stab, 

A kingdom  topples  over  with  a shriek 

Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls 
the  world 

In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our 
own  ; 

Bevolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 

No  graver  than  a schoolboys’  barring 
out ; 

Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they 
are, 

Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in 
them, 

Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise 
a dream 

As  some  of  theirs  — God  bless  the 
narrow  seas ! 

I wish  they  were  a whole  Atlantic 
broad.” 

“Have  patience,”  I replied,  “our- 
selves are  full 

Of  social  wrong;  and  maybe  wildest 
dreams 

Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the 
truth : 

For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy 
crowd, 

The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a 
faith, 

This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a 
child 

Yet  in  the  go-cart.  Patience  ! Give 
it  time 

To  learn  its  limbs : there  is  a hand 
that  guides.” 

In  such  discourse  we  gain’d  the 
garden  rails, 


And  there  we  saw  Sir  Waller  where 
he  stood, 

Before  a tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks, 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head, 
and  look’d 

No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 

A great  broad-shoulder’d  genial  Eng- 
lishman, 

A lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 
A patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 

A pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on 
grain, 

A quarter-sessions  chairman,  abler 
none ; 

Fair-hair’d  and  redder  than  a windy 
morn ; 

Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now 
him,  of  those 

That  stood  the  nearest  — now  ad- 
dress’d to  speech  — 

Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such 
as  closed 

Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for 
the  year 

To  follow : a shout  rose  again,  and 
made 

The  long  line  of  the  approaching 
rookery  swerve 

From  the  broad  elms,  and  shook  the 
branches  of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro’  distant  ferns, 
and  rang 

Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset ; O,  a 
shout 

More  joyful  than  the  city-roar  that 
hails 

Premier  or  king!  Why  should  not 
these  great  Sirs 

Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times 
a year 

To  let  the  people  breathe  ? So  thrice 
they  cried, 

I likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream’d 
away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey, 
and  sat  on, 

So  much  the  gathering  darkness 
charm’d  : we  sat 

But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless 
reverie, 


MAUD. 


440 


Perchance  upon  the  future  man : the 
walls 

Blacken’d  about  us,  bats  wheel’d,  and 
owls  whoop’d, 

And  gradually  the  powers  of  the 
night, 

That  range  above  the  region  of  the 
wind, 

Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight 
broke  them  up 


Thro’  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the 
worlds, 

Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven 
of  Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly, 

Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of 
Sir  Ralph 

From  those  rich  silks,  and  hom(j  well- 
pleased  we  went. 


MAUD;  A MONODRAMA. 

PART  I. 


I hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 

Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  blood-red  heath, 
The  red-ribb’d  ledges  drip  with  a silent  horror  of  blood. 
And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask’d  her,  answers  “ Death.” 


ii. 

For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a body  was  found, 

His  who  had  given  me  life  — -.0  father  ! O God ! was  it  well  1 — 

Mangled,  and  flatten’d,  and  crush’d,  and  dinted  into  the  ground : 

There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell. 

hi. 

Did  he  fling  himself  down  ? who  knows  ? for  a vast  speculation  had  fail’d, 
And  ever  he  mutter’d  and  madden’d,  and  ever  wann’d  with  despair, 

And  out  he  walk’d  when  the  wind  like  a broken  worldling  wail’d, 

And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin’d  woodlands  drove  thro’  the  air. 


I remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stirr’d 

By  a shuffled  step,  by  a dead  weight  trail’d,  by  a whisper’d  fright, 

And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a shock  on  my  heart  as  I heard 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a mother  divide  the  shuddering  night. 


Villany  somewhere!  whose'?  One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 

Not  he  : his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  maintained : 

But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 

Dropt  off  gorged  from  a scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  and  drain’d. 


Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace  ? we  have  made  them  a curse, 
Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own ; 

And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 

Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  his  own  hearthstone  ? 


MAUD. 


441 


VII. 

But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind, 

When  who  but  a fool  would  have  faith  in  a tradesman’s  ware  or  his  word  ? 
Is  it  peace  or  war  1 Civil  war,  as  I think,  and  that  of  a kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 

VIII. 

Sooner  or  later  I too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age  — why  not  % I have  neither  hope  nor  trust; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a millstone,  set  my  face  as  a flint, 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die  : who  knows  ? we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by, 

When  the  poor  are  hovell’d  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine, 
When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie  ; 

Peace  in  her  vineyard  — yes ! — but  a company  forges  the  wine. 


And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian's  head, 

Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife, 

And  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread, 

And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life, 

XI. 

And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm’d,  for  the  villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights, 

While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To  pestle  a poison’d  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 

XII. 

When  a Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a burial  fee, 

And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a pile  of  children’s  bones, 

Is  it  peace  or  war  1 better,  war ! loud  war  by  land  and  by  sea, 

War  with  a thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a hundred  thrones. 

XIII. 

For  I trust  if  an  enemy’s  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill, 

And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam, 

That  the  smooth-faced  snubnosed  rogue  would  leap  from  his  counter  and  till, 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home. 

XIV. 

What ! am  I raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood  ? 

Must  I too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a horror  of  shatter’d  limbs  and  a wretched  swindler’s  lie  ? 


442 


MAUD. 


xv. 

Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  ? there  was  love  in  the  passionate  shriek, 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave  — 
Wrapt  in  a cloak,  as  I saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God,  as  he  used  to  rave. 

XVI. 

I am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I stay  ? can  a sweeter  chance  ever  come  to  me  here 
O,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain. 

Were  it  not  wise  if  I fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  fear  ? 

XVII. 

Workmen  up  at  the  Hall!  — they  are  coming  back  from  abroad; 

The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a millionaire  : 

I have  heard,  I know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud ; 

I play’d  with  the  girl  when  a child ; she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 

XVIII. 

Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 

Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all,  — 

XIX. 

What  is  she  now  ? My  dreams  are  bad.  She  may  bring  me  a curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor ; she  will  let  me  alone. 

Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I will  bury  myself  in  myself,  and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 

II. 

Long  have  I sigh’d  for  a calm : God  grant  I may  find  it  at  last ! 

It  will  never  be  broken  by  Maud,  she  has  neither  savor  nor  salt, 

But  a cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I found  when  her  carriage  past, 
Perfectly  beautiful : let  it  be  granted  her  : where  is  the  fault  ? 

All  that  I saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 

Dead  perfection,  no  more  ; nothing  more,  if  it  had  not  been 
For  a chance  of  travel,  a paleness,  an  hour’s  defect  of  the  rose, 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a little  too  ripe,  too  full, 

Or  the  least  little  delicate  aquiline  curve  in  a sensitive  nose, 

From  which  I escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 

III. 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek, 

Breaking  a slumber  in  which  all  spleenful  folly  was  drown’d, 

Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek, 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a gloom  profound ; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 


MAUD. 


443 


Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a sound, 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  I could  bear  it  no  more, 

But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground, 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 

Now  to  the  scream  of  a madden’d  beach  dragg’d  down  by  the  wave. 
Walk’d  in  a wintry  wind  by  a ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 

IV. 

A million  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I sit  — ah,  wherefore  cannot  I be 
Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the  bountiful  season  bland, 
When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a softer  clime, 
Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a crescent  of  sea, 

The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land  1 


ii. 

Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small ! 

And  yet  bubbles  o’er  like  a city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite ; 

And  Jack  on  his  ale-house  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a Czar ; 

And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I see  her  pass  like  a light ; 

But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star ! 

hi. 

When  have  I bow’d  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race  ? 

I met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I bow’d : 

I bow’d  to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor  ; 

But  the  fire  of  a foolish  pride  flash’d  over  her  beautiful  face. 

0 child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud  ; 

Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I am  nameless  and  poor. 

IV. 

1 keep  but  a man  and  a maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal ; 

I know  it,  and  smile  a hard-set  smile,  like  a stoic,  or  like 

A wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way  : 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear’d  by  the  shrike. 
And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I sit  is  a world  of  plunder  and  prey. 


We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower ; 
Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a game 
That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed  ? 

Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour ; 

We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a brother’s  shame  ; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a little  breed. 


444 


MA  UD. 


VI. 

A monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 

For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran, 

And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature’s  crowning  race. 

As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth, 

So  many  a million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man : 

He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ? is  he  not  too  base  ? 

vn 

The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain, 

An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a spirit  bounded  and  poor ; 

The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl’d  into  folly  and  vice. 

I would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a temperate  brain ; 

For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a garden  of  spice. 

vm. 

For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 

Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them  about  1 
Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 

Shall  I weep  if  a Poland  fall  % shall  I shriek  if  a Hungary  fail  'i 
Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout  ? 

I have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 


Be  mine  a philosopher’s  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways, 

Where  if  I cannot  be  gay  let  a passionless  peace  be  my  lot, 

Far-off  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied  in  the  hubbub  of  lies ; 

From  the  long-neck’d  geese  of  the  world  that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise 
Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not, 

Where  each  man  walks  with  his  head  in  a cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 

x. 

And  most  of  all  would  I flee  from  the  cruel  madness  of  love, 

The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 

Ah  Maud,  you  milk-white  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a wife. 

Your  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her  image  in  marble  above; 

Your  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will ; 

You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses  and  lain  in  the  lilies  of  life. 


V. 


A voice  by  the  cedar  tree 
In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to 
me, 

A passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 
A martial  song  like  a trumpet’s  call ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 


Inthehappymorningof  life  andof  May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 
March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 

ii. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the 
sunny  sky, 


MAUD. 


445 


And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  Eng- 
lish green, 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and 
her  grace, 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 
cannot  die, 

Till  I well  could  weep  for  a time  so 
sordid  and  mean, 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

hi. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice ! 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the 
mind 

With  a joy  in  which  I cannot  rejoice, 

A glory  I shall  not  find. 

Still ! I will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me 
a choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall 
before 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and 
adore, 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor 
kind, 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a voice, 

VI. 


Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale. 

No  sun,  but  a wannish  glare 
In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 
And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are 
bow’d 

Caught  and  cuff’d  by  the  gale : 

I had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 

ii. 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I meet 
Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn’d 
On  the  blossom’d  gable-ends 
At  the  head  of  the  village  street, 
Whom  but  Maud  should  I meet 1 
And  she  touch’d  my  hand  with  a smile 
so  sweet, 

She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a courtesy  not  return’d. 

in. 

And  thus  a delicate  spark 
Of  glowing  and  growing  light 
Thro’  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 


Kept  itself  warm  in  the  heart  of  my 
dreams, 

Ready  to  burst  in  a color’d  flame ; 
Till  at  last  when  the  morning  came 
In  a cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 
But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 

IV. 

What  if  with  her  sunny  hair, 

And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold, 

She  meant  to  weave  me  a snare 
Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 
Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 
To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 

To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a silken  net 
And  fawn  at  a victor’s  feet. 

v. 

Ah,  what  shall  I be  at  fifty 
Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 

If  I find  the  world  so  bitter 
When  I am  but  twenty-five  ? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a cheat, 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem’d, 
And  her  smile  were  all  that  I dream’d, 
Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 
But  a smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

VI. 

What  if  tho’  her  eye  seem’d  full 
Of  a kind  intent  to  me, 

What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he, 

That  jewell’d  mass  of  millinery, 

That  oil’d  and  curl’d  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence, 
Her  brother,  from  whom  I keep  aloof, 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 
To  mask,  tho’  but  in  his  own  behoof, 
With  a glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn  — 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign’d, 
And  a moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes, 
That  so,  when'  the  rotten  hustings 
shake 

In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 

A wretched  vote  may  be  gain’d. 

VII. 

For  a raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side, 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch 
and  ward, 


446 


MAUD. 


Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 

Yea,  too,  myself  from  myself  I guard, 
For  often  a man’s  own  angry  pride 
Is  cap  and  bells  for  a fool. 

tiii. 

Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 
Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood, 
For  am  I not,  am  I not,  here  alone 
So  many  a summer  since  she  died, 

My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and 
good? 

Living  alone  in  an  empty  house, 

Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood, 
Where  I hear  the  dead  at  midday 
moan, 

And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot 
mouse, 

And  my  own  sad  name  in  corners 
cried, 

When  the  shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is 
thrown 

About  its  echoing  chambers  wide, 

Till  a morbid  hate  and  horror  have 
grown 

Of  a world  in  which  I have  hardly 
mixt. 

And  a morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 
On  a heart  half-turned  to  stone. 

IX. 

0 heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and 

caught 

By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 

F or  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,  I fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of 
love, 

That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and 
trip 

When  I saw  the  treasured  splendor, 
her  hand, 

Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove, 
And  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip  ? 

x. 

1 have  play’d  with  her  when  a child ; 
She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I may  be  beguiled 
By  some  coquettish  deceit. 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a cheat, 


If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem’d, 
And  her  smile  had  all  that  I dream’d, 
Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 
But  a smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

VII. 


Did  I hear  it  half  in  a doze 
Long  since,  I know  not  where  ? 
Did  I dream  it  an  hour  ago, 

When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair  % 

ii. 

Men  were  drinking  together, 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me  ; 

“ Well,  if  it  prove  a girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty : so  let  it  be.” 

hi. 

Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a boy’s  delight, 

Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  night  ? 

IV. 

Strange,  that  I hear  two  men, 
Somewhere,  talking  of  me  ; 
“Well,  if  it  prove  a girl,  my  boy 
Will  have  plenty;  so  let  it  be.” 

VIII. 

She  came  to  the  village  church, 

And  sat  by  a pillar  alone ; 

An  angel  watching  an  urn 
Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone; 

And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her 
eyes, 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely 
blush’d 

To  find  they  were  met  by  my  own  ; 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat 
stronger 

And  thicker,  until  I heard  no  longer 
The  snowy-banded,  dilettante, 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone; 

And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused 
and  sigh’d 

“No  surely,  nowr  it  cannot  be  pride.” 


MA  UD. 


447 


IX. 

I was  walking  a mile, 

More  than  a mile  from  the  shore, 
The  sun  look’d  out  with  a smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor, 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land, 

Rapidly  riding  far  away, 

She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  flash’d  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  I saw  them  ride, 
In  a moment  they  were  gone : 
Like  a sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 

Then  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 

X. 


Sick,  am  I sick  of  a jealous  dread  ? 
Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new-made  lord,  whose  splendor 
plucks 

The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager’s 
head  ? 

Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died, 
Gone  to  a blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And  laying  his  trams  in  a poison’d 
gloom 

Wrought,  till  he  crept  from  a gutted 
mine 

Master  of  half  a servile  shire, 

And  left  his  coal  all  turn’d  into  gold 
To  a grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line, 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire, 
Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men 
adore, 

And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 

New  as  his  title,  built  last  year, 

There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a cockney  ear. 
ii. 

What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out  ? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her 
side 


Bound  for  the  Hall,  I am  sure  was  he  : 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I think  for  a 
bride. 

Blithe  would  her  brother’s  acceptance 
be. 

Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt 
To  a lord,  a captain,  a padded  shape, 
A bought  commission,  a waxen  face, 
A rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape  — 
Bought  ? what  is  it  he  cannot  buy  ? 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal, 
base, 

A wounded  thing  with  a rancorous  cry, 
At  war  with  myself  and  a wretched 
race, 

Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 
hi. 

Last  week  came  one  to  the  county 
town, 

To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down, 
And  play  the  game  of  the  despot  kings, 
Tho’  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice 
as  well : 

This  broad-brimm’d  hawker  of  holy 
things, 

Whose  ear  is  cramm’d  with  his  cotton, 
and  rings 

Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his 
pence, 

This  huckster  put  down  war ! can  he 
tell 

Whether  war  be  a cause  or  a conse- 
quence ? 

Put  down  the  passions  that  make 
earth  Hell ! 

Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
Jealousy,  down  ! cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear ; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside, 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear, 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 

iv. 

I Avish  I could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy  ! 

I might  persuade  myself  then 
She  would  not  do  herself  this  great 
wrong, 

To  take  a wanton  dissolute  boy 
For  a man  and  leader  of  men. 


448 


MA  UD. 


v. 

Ah  God,  for  a man  with  heart,  head, 
hand, 

Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones 
gone 

For  ever  and  ever  by, 

One  still  strong  man  in  a blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat  — one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 

VI. 

And  ah  for  a man  to  arise  in  me, 
That  the  man  I am  may  cease  to  be ! 

XI. 


0 let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I go  mad, 

1 shall  have  had  my  day. 

ii. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 

Not  close  and  darken  above  me 
Before  I am  quite  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may 
To  a life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I shall  have  had  my  day. 

XII. 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 
Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

They  were  crying  and  calling. 
ii. 

Where  was  Maud  ? in  our  wood ; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 
Myriads  blow  together. 

hi. 

Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Ringing  thro’  the  valleys, 

Maud  is  here,  here,  here 
In  among  the  lilies. 


IV. 

I kiss’d  her  slender  hand, 

She  took  the  kiss  sedately; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen, 

But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

v. 

I .to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favor ! 

0 Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

VI. 

1 know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 

For  her  feet  have  touch’d  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

VII. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 
Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud  ? 

One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

VIII. 

Look,  a horse  at  the  door, 

And  little  King  Charley  snarling, 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 
You  are  not  her  darling. 

XIII. 

Scorn’d,  to  be  scorn’d  by  one  that  I 
scorn, 

Is  that  a matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 
That  a calamity  hard  to  be  borne  ? 
Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 
Fool  that  I am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride ! 
I past  him,  I was  crossing  his  lands ; 
He  stood  on  the  path  a little  aside ; 
His  face,  as  I grant,  in  spite  of  spite, 
Has  a broad-blown  comeliness,  red 
and  white, 

And  six  feet  two,  as  I think,  he  stands ; 
But  his  essences  turn’d  the  live  air  sick, 
And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn’d  itself  on  his  breast  and  his 
hands. 

ii. 

Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 

I long’d  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship ; 


MAUD. 


449 


But  while  I past  he  was  humming  an 
air, 

Stopt,  and  then  with  a riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a glossy  boot, 

And  curving  a contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a stony  British  stare. 

hi. 

Why  sits  he  here  in  his  father’s  chair  ? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place : 
Shall  I believe  him  ashamed  to  be 
seen  ? 

For  only  once,  in  the  village  street, 
Last  year,  I caught  a glimpse  of  his 
face, 

A gray  old  wolf  and  a lean. 

Scarcely,  now,  would  I call  him  a 
cheat ; 

For  then,  perhaps,  as  a child  of  deceit, 
She  might  by  a true  descent  be  untrue ; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet : 
Tho’  I fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side ; 
Her  mother  has  been  a thing  complete, 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin . 

Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  heap’d  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race, 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 

IV. 

Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  ’. 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me  'i 

XIY. 


Maud  has  a garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a lawn  ; 

There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower, 
And  thither  I climb’d  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden-gate ; 

A lion  ramps  at  the  top, 

He  is  claspt  by  a passion-flower. 

n. 

Maud’s  own  little  oak-room 
(Which  Maud,  like  a precious  stone 


Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom, 
Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 
She  sits  by  her  music  and  books 
And  her  brother  lingers  late 
With  a roystering  company)  looks 
Upon  Maud’s  own  garden-gate  : 

And  I thought  as  I stood,  if  a hand, 
as  white 

As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 
On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my 
Delight 

Had  a sudden  desire,  like  a glorious 
ghost,  to  glide, 

Like  a beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven, 
down  to  my  side, 

There  were  but  a step  to  be  made. 
hi. 

The  fancy  flatter’d  my  mind, 

And  again  seem’d  overbold ; 

Now  I thought  that  she  cared  for  me. 
Now  I thought  she  was  kind 
Only  because  she  was  cold 

IV. 

I heard  no  sound  where  I stood 
But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 
Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood*, 
Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as 
it  swell’d 

Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn , 
But  I look’d,  and  round,  all  round  the 
house  I beheld 

The  death-white  curtain  drawn  , 

Felt  a horror  over  me  creep, 

Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 
Knew  that  the  death-white  curtain 
meant  but  sleep, 

Yet  I shudder’d  and  thought  like  a 
fool  of  the  sleep  of  death. 

XV. 

So  dark  a mind  within  me  dwells, 

And  I make  myself  such  evil  cheer, 
That  if  I be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  some  one  else  may  have  much 
to  fear ; 

But  if  I be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  I should  be  to  myself  more 
dear. 


450 


MAUD. 


Shall  I not  take  care  of  all  that  I think, 
Yea  ev’n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink, 
If  I be  dear, 

If  I be  dear  to  some  one  else. 


XYI. 

i. 

This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 
The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight ; 
And  so  that  he  find  what  he  went  to 
seek, 

And  fulsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and 
drown 

His  heart  in  the  gross  mud-honey  of 
town, 

He  may  stay  for  a year  who  has  gone 
for  a week : 

But  this  is  the  day  when  I must  speak, 
And  I see  my  Oread  coming  down, 

O this  is  the  day ! 

0 beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I dare  to  look  her  way ; 

Think  I may  hold  dominion  sweet, 
Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her 

breast, 

And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender 
dread, 

From  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her 
feet 

To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as 
the  crest 

Of  a peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head, 
And  she  knows  it  not : O,  if  she  knew  it, 
To  know  herbeauty  might  half  undo  it. 

1 know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps  from  madness,  perhaps  from 

crime, 

Perhaps  from  a selfish  grave. 

ii. 

What,  if  she  be  fasten’d  to  this  fool 
lord, 

Hare  I bid  her  abide  by  her  word  ? 
Should  I love  her  so  well  if  she 
Had  given  her  word  to  a thing  so  low  'i 
Shall  I love  her  as  well  if  she 
Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for 
me  ? 

I trust  that  it  is  not  so. 


hi. 

Catch  not  my  breath,  O clamorous 
heart, 

Let  not  my  tongue  be  a thrall  to  my 
eye, 

For  I must  tell  her  before  we  part, 

I must  tell  her,  or  die. 

XVII. 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 

Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 

Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a rose  her  mouth 
When  the  happy  Yes 
Falters  from  her  lips, 

Pass  and  blush  the  news 
Over  glowing  ships ; 

Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 

Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro’  the  West; 

Till  the  red  man  dance 
By  his  red  cedar-tree, 

And  the  red  man’s  babe 
Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 

Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 

Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro’  the  West. 

Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 

Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a rose  her  mouth. 

XVIII. 


I have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my 
only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my 
blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish’d-for 
end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  prom- 
ised good. 


MA  UD. 


451 


ii. 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels’ 
pattering  talk 

Seem’d  her  light  foot  along  the 
garden  walk, 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she 
comes  once  more ; 

But  even  then  I heard  her  close  the 
door, 

The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and 
she  is  gone. 

hi. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have 
deceased. 

O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 
delicious  East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho’  thy  limbs  have  here 
increased, 

Upon  a pastoral  slope  as  fair, 

And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey’d  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed 
my  fate, 

And  made  my  life  a perfumed  altar- 
flame; 

And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must 
have  spread 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old, 
thy  great 

Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden, 
there 

Shadowing  the  snow-limb’d  Eve  from 
whom  she  came. 

iv. 

Here  will  I lie,  while  these  long 
branches  sway, 

And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a 
happy  day 

Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 

As  when  it  seem’d  far  better  to  be 
born 

To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden’d 
hand, 


Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to 
understand 

A sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 

That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron 
skies, 

Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and 
brand 

His  nothingness  into  man. 

v. 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 

Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a 
pearl 

The  countercharm  of  space  and  hol- 
low sky, 

And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would 
die 

To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one 
simple  girl. 

VI. 

Would  die*;  for  sullen-seeming  Death 
may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  ’tis  sweet 
to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to 
pass ; 

It  seems  that  I am  happy,  that  to  me 

A livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the 
grass, 

A purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

VII. 

Not  die;  but  live  a life  of  truest 
breath, 

And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with 
mortal  wrongs. 

O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in 
drinking-songs, 

Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust 
of  death  1 

Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long 
loving  kiss, 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer 
this  1 

“ The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven 
here 

With  dear  Love’s  tie,  makes  Love 
himself  more  dear.” 


452 


MAUD. 


VIII. 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the 
swell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder 
bay'? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver 
knell 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in 
bridal  white, 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses 
play ; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed 
her  sight 

And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and 
stol’n  away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless 
fancies  dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden 
day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace 
affright ! 

Dear  heart,  I feel  with  thee  the 
drowsy  spell. 

My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 

My  own  heart’s  heart,  my  ownest  own, 
farewell ; 

It  is  but  for  a little  space  I go  : 

And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and 
fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the 
night ! 

Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to 
the  glow 

Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look 
so  bright  % 

I have  climb’d  nearer  out  of  lonely 
Hell. 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things 
below, 

Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than 
heart  can  tell, 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent 
woe 

That  seems  to  draw'  — but  it  shall  not 
be  so : 

Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

XIX. 

i. 

Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night, 

Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


ii. 

My  dream  ? do  I dream  of  bliss  1 
I have  walk’d  awake  with  Truth. 

0 when  did  a morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 
Darken’d  watching  a mother  decline 
And  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and 

mine: 

For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  1 1 
Yet  so  did  I let  my  freshness  die. 

hi. 

1 trust  that  I did  not  talk 
To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 
(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 

I have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless 
things) 

But  I trust  that  I did  not  talk, 

Not  touch  on  her  father’s  sin  : 

I am  sure  I did  but  speak 
Of  my  mother’s  faded  cheek 
When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin, 

That  I felt  she  was  slowly  dying 
Yext  with  lawyers  and  harass’d  with 
debt : 

For  how  often  I caught  her  with  eyes 
all  wet, 

Shaking  her  head  at  her  son  and  sigh- 
ing 

A world  of  trouble  within ! 

IV. 

And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 
To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 
As  one  scarce  less  forlorn, 

Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 
From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share 
her  heart, 

And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 
The  household  Fury  sprinkled  with 
blood  * 

By  which  our  houses  are  torn  : 

How  strange  was  what  she  said, 
When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 
Hung  over  her  dying  bed  — 

That  Maud’s  dark  father  and  mine 
Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other, 
Betrothed  us  over  their  wine, 

On  the  day  when  Maud  was  born ; 
Seal’d  her  mine  from  her  first  sweet 
breath. 


MA  UD 


453 


Mine,  mine  by  a right,  from  birth  till 
death. 

Mine,  mine — our  fathers  have  sworn. 


But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a 
heat 

To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a 
bond, 

That,  if  left  uncancell’d,  had  been  so 
sweet : 

And  none  of  us  thought  of  a some- 
thing beyond, 

A desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of 
the  child. 

As  it  were  a duty  done  to  the  tomb, 
To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  re- 
conciled ; 

And  I was  cursing  them  and  my 
doom, 

And  letting  a dangerous  thought  run 
wild 

While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant 
gloom 

Of  foreign  churches  — I see  her 
there, 

Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a 
prayer 

To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled ! 

VI. 

But  then  what  a flint  is  he ! 

Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 

I find  whenever  she  touch’d  on  me 
This  brother  had  laugh’d  her  down, 
And  at  last,  when  each  came  home, 
He  had  darken’d  into  a frown, 

Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 
To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  be- 
fore ; 

And  this  was  what  had  redden’d  her 
cheek 

When  I bow’d  to  her  on  the  moor. 

VII. 

Yet  Maud,  altho’  not  blind 

To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 

I see  she  cannot  but  love  him, 

And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind, 

And  wishes  me  to  approve  him, 

And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 


Sick  once,  with  a fear  of  worse. 

Then  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and 
Play, 

Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and 
day, 

And  tended  her  like  a nurse. 

VIII. 

Kind  1 but  the  deathbed  desire 
Spurn’d  by  this  heir  of  the  liar  — 
Rough  but  kind  'l  yet  I know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this, 
That  he  plots  against  me  still. 

Kind  to  Maud  ? that  were  not  amiss. 
Well,  rough  but  kind;  why  let  it  be 
so : 

For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will  ? 

IX. 

For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true, 

As  long  as  my  life  endures 
I feel  I shall  owe  you  a debt, 

That  I never  can  hope  to  pay ; 

And  if  ever  I should  forget 
That  I owe  this  debt  to  you 
And  for  your  sweet  sake  to  yours  ; 

0 then,  what  then  shall  I say  ? — 

If  ever  I should  forget, 

May  God  make  me  more  wretched 
Than  ever  I have  been  yet ! 

x. 

So  now  I have  sworn  to  bury 
All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

1 feel  so  free  and  so  clear 

By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight, 

That  I should  grow  light-headed,  \ 
fear, 

Fantastically  merry; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a 
blight 

On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to- 
night. 

XX. 


Strange,  that  I felt  so  gay, 
Strange,  that  I tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy  ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him,— 


454 


MAUD . 


She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him  — 

But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly : 

Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due  q. 

Or  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners, 

Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses  q 
Now  I know  her  but  in  two, 

Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather, 

Or  the  frock  and  gipsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer ; 

For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 

ii. 

But  to-morrow,  if  we  live, 

Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near  ; 

And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels, 

And  the  bird  of  prey  will  hover, 

And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

hi. 

A grand  political  dinner 
To  the  men  of  many  acres, 

A gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A dinner  and  then  a dance 
For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers, 
And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 
At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

IV. 

For  I am  not  invited, 

But,  with  the  Sultan’s  pardon, 

I am  all  as  well  delighted, 

For  I know  her  own  rose-garden, 

And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over ; 

And  then,  oh  then,  come  out  to  me 
For  a minute,  but  for  a minute, 

Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 

Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 


XXI. 

Rivulet  crossing  my  ground. 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the 
Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I found, 
Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me, 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 
Here  at  the  head  of  a tinkling  fall. 
And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea ; 

0 Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 
(If  I read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a blushing  mission  to  me, 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  “ Ah,  be 
Among  the  roses  to-night.” 

XXII. 

i. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted 
abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

ii. 

For  a breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that 
she  loves 

On  a bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  .of  the  sun  she 
loves, 

To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 
hi. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 
The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 

All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine 
stirr’d 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune ; 
Till  a silence  fell  with  the  waking 
bird, 

And  a hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

IV. 

1 said  to  the  lily,  “ There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her 
alone  ? 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ! 


Page  455. 


MAUD . 


455 


She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.” 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 

Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the 
stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 


I said  to  the  rose,  “The  brief  night 
goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are 
those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 

But  mine,  but  mine,”  so  I sware  to 
the  rose, 

“For  ever  and  ever,  mine.” 

VI. 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into 
my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash’d  in  the  hall ; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I stood, 

For  I heard  your  rivulet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on 
to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

VII. 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have 
left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a March-wind  sighs 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we 
meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

VIII. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the 
lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 

But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for 
your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 

The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh’d  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

IX. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of 
girls, 

Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 


In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of 
pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over 
with  curls, 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a splendid  tear 
From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 

She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 
She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 

The  red  rose  cries,  “ She  is  near,  she 
is  near;  ” 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  “ She  i? 
late ; ” 

The  larkspur  listens,  “ I hear,  I hear;  ” 
And  the  lily  whispers,  “ I wait.” 

XI. 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 
Were  it  ever  so  airy  a tread, 

My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 
Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 
Had  I lain  for  a century  dead ; 

Would  start  and  tremble  under  her 
feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

PART  II. 

I. 

i. 

“The  fault  was  mine,  the  fault  was 
mine  ” — 

Why  am  I sitting  here  so  stunn’d  and 
still, 

Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on 
the  hill  ? — 

It  is  this  guilty  hand  ! — 

And  there  rises  ever  a passionate  cry 

From  underneath  in  the  darkening 
land  — 

What  is  it,  that  has  been  done  'l 

0 dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth 
and  sky, 

The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy 
rising  sun, 

The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate ; 

For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken 
a word, 


456 


MAUD. 


When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to 
the  gate, 

He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord  ; 
Heap’d  on  her  terms  of  disgrace, 

And  while  she  wept,  and  I strove  to 
be  cool, 

He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie, 

Till  I with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke, 
And  he  struck  me,  madman,  over  the 
face, 

Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool, 
Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by  : 
Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke; 
Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeem- 
able woe; 

For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood, 
And  a million  horrible  bellowing 
echoes  broke 

From  the  red-ribb’d  hollow  behind 
the  wood, 

And  thunder’d  up  into  Heaven  the 
Christless  code, 

That  must  have  life  for  a blow. 

Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  seem’d  to 
grow. 

Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a fading  eye  ? 
“ The  fault  was  mine,”  he  whisper’d, 

“ fly ! ” 

Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 
The  ghastly  Wraith  of  one  that  I 
know ; 

And  there  rang  on  a sudden  a pas- 
sionate cry, 

A cry  for  a brother’s  blood  : 

It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears, 
till  I die,  till  I die. 

ii. 

Is  it  gone  ? my  pulses  beat  — 

What  was  it  ? a lying  trick  of  the 
brain  ? 

Yet  I thought  I saw  her  stand, 

A shadow  there  at  my  feet, 

High  over  the  shadowy  land. 

It  is  gone ; and  the  heavens  fall  in  a 
gentle  rain, 

When  they  should  burst  and  drown 
with  deluging  storms 
The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger 
and  lust, 

The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how 
to  forgive  : 


Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold 
Thee  just, 

Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of 
venomous  worms. 

That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust; 
We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 

II. 


See  what  a lovely  shell, 

Small  and  pure  as  a pearl, 

Lying  close  to  my  foot, 

Frail,  but  a work  divine, 

Made  so  fairily  well 

With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 

How  exquisitely  minute, 

A miracle  of  design  ! 

ii. 

What  is  it  ? a learned  man 
Could  give  it  a clumsy  name. 

Let  him  name  it  who  can, 

The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

hi. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 

Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 

Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a rainbow  frill  ? 

Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl’d, 
A golden  foot  or  a fairy  horn 
Thro’  his  dim  water-world  1 

iv. 

Slight,  to  be  crush’d  with  a tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a work  divine, 

Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three  decker’s  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 

Here  on  the  Breton  strand ! 

v. 

Breton,  not  Briton  ; here 

Like  a shipwreck’d  man  on  a coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear  — 


MAUD . 


457 


Plagued  with  a flitting  to  and  fro, 

A disease,  a hard  mechanic  ghost 
That  never  came  from  on  high 
Nor  ever  arose  from  below, 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye, 
Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main  — 
Why  should  it  look  like  Maud  ? 

Am  I to  be  overawed 
By  what  I cannot  but  know 
Is  a juggle  born  of  the  brain  ? 


Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a nameless  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 
Looking,  thinking  of  all  I have  lost; 
An  old  song  vexes  my  ear ; 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 

VII. 

For  years,  a measureless  ill, 

For  years,  for  ever,  to  part  — 

But  she,  she  would  love  me  still; 

And  as  long,  O God,  as  she 
Have  a grain  of  love  for  me, 

So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 

Shall  I nurse  in  my  dark  heart, 
However  weary,  a spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 

VIII. 

Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 
With  a passion  so  intense 
One  would  think  that  it  well 
Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye,  — 
That  it  should,  by  being  so  over- 
wrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a sharper  sense 
For  a shell,  or  a flower,  little  things 
Which  else  would  have  been  past  by! 
And  now  I remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 
(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and 
thought 

It  is  his  mother’s  hair. 

IX. 

Who  knows  if  he  be  dead  ? 

Whether  I need  have  fled  ? 

Am  I guilty  of  blood  ? 


However  this  may  be, 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things 
good, 

While  I am  over  the  sea  ! 

Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 
But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and 
high, 

Whatever  happen  to  me ! 

Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by ; 

But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her 
asleep, 

Powers  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the 
deep, 

And  comfort  her  tho’  I die. 

III. 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone ! 

I will  not  ask  thee  why 
Thou  canst  not  understand 
That  thou  art  left  for  ever  alone ; 
Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 
Or  if  I ask  thee  why, 

Care  not  thou  to  reply  : 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at 
hand 

When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 

IY. 

O that  ’twere  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  ! 

ii. 

When  I was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 

We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

hi. 

A shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  : 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 
For  one  short  hour  to  see 
The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might 
tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 


458 


MAUD. 


IV. 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 
In  a cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

v. 

Half  the  night  I waste  in  sighs, 

Half  in  dreams  I sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies ; 

In  a wakeful  doze  I sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 

For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 

The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 

The  delight  of  low  replies. 


’Tis  a morning  pure  and  sweet, 

And  a dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls  ; 

’Tis  a morning  pure  and  sweet, 

And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet; 

She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 

And  the  woodland  echo  rings  ; 

In  a moment  we  shall  meet ; 

She  is  singing  in  the  meadow 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

VII. 

Do  I hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 

My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 

My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  ? 
But  there  rings  on  a sudden  a pas- 
sionate cry, 

There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 

And  a sullen  thunder  is  roll’d  ; 

For  a tumult  shakes  the  city, 

And  I wake,  my  dream  is  fled  ; 

In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 

By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

VIII. 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again, 


Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 

Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about ! 

’Tis  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 

IX. 

Then  I rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 

And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide ; 

The  day  comes,  a dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 

x. 

Thro’  the  hubbub  of  the  market 
I steal,  a wasted  frame, 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there, 

Thro’  all  that  crowd  confused  and 
loud, 

The  shadow  still  the  same ; 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

XI. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came  glimmering  thro’  the  laurels 
At  the  quiet  evenfall, 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

XII. 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend, 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 

In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 

As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 

Should  I fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  “ Forgive  the  wrong,” 

Or  to  ask  her,  “ Take  me,  sweet, 

To  the  regions  of  thy  rest”  'i 

XIII. 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 
And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 
And  will  not  let  me  be ; 

And  I loathe  the  squares  and  streets. 
And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 

Always  I long  to  creep 


MAUD. 


ITI. 


459 


Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 
My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

y. 


Dead,  long  dead, 

Long  dead ! 

And  my  heart  is  a handful  of  dust, 
And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head, 
And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain, 
For  into  a shallow  grave  they  are 
thrust, 

Only  a yard  beneath  the  street, 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat, 
beat, 

The  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat, 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  brain, 
With  never  an  end  to  the  stream  of 
passing  feet, 

Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying, 
Clamor  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and 
clatter, 

And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad, 

For  I thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but 
it  is  not  so  ; 

To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that 
not  sad  ? 

But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro, 
Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go ; 

And  then  to  hear  a dead  man  chatter 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 

ii. 

Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began, 
They  cannot  even  bury  a man  ; 

And  tho’  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the 
days  that  are  gone, 

Not  a bell  was  rung,  not  a prayer  was 
read ; 

It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the 
world  of  the  dead  ; 

There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not 
one  ; 

A touch  of  their  office  might  have 
sufficed, 

But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill 
their  church, 

As  the  churches  have  kill’d  their 
Christ. 


See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing, 

No  limit  to  his  distress  ; 

And  another,  a lord  of  all  things, 
praying 

To  his  own  great  self,  as  I guess  ; 

And  another,  a statesman  there,  be- 
traying 

His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press  ; 
And  yonder  a vile  physician,  blabbing 
The  case  of  his  patient  — all  for 
what  ? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an 
empty  head, 

And  wheedle  a world  that  loves  him 
not, 

For  it  is  but  a world  of  the  dead. 

IV. 

Nothing  but  idiot  gabble ! 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 
And  then  not  understood, 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold  ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  public 
good, 

But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 

For  I never  whisper’d  a private  affair 
Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 
No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone, 
But  I heard  it  shouted  at  once  from 
the  top  of  the  house  ; 
Everything  came  to  be  known. 

Who  told  him  we  were  there? 


Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  cable 
not  back 

From  the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves, 
where  he  used  to  lie  ; 

He  has  gather’d  the  bones  for  his 
o’ergrown  whelp  to  crack  ; 

Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and 
howl,  and  die. 

VI. 

Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 

And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the 
rat ; 

I know  not  whether  he  came  in  the 
Hanover  ship, 


460 


MAUD. 


But  I know  that  he  lies  and  listens 
mute 

In  an  ancient  mansion’s  crannies  and 
holes  : 

Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it, 

Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes, 
poor  souls  ! 

It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 

VII. 

Tell  him  now  : she  is  standing  here  at 
my  head ; 

Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind  ; 

He  may  take  her  now  ; for  she  never 
speaks  her  mind, 

But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 

She  is  not  of  us,  as  I divine  ; 

She  comes  from  another  stiller  world 
of  the  dead, 

Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 

VIII. 

But  I know  where  a garden  grows, 

Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  be- 
side, 

All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 

That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season 
is  good, 

To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and 
flutes  : 

It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits, 

And  I almost  fear  they  are  not  roses, 
but  blood ; 

For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of 
pride, 

He  linkt  a dead  man  there  to  a spec- 
tral bride ; 

For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a Sultan  of 
brutes, 

Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side  ? 


IX. 

But  what  will  the  old  man  say  ? 

He  laid  a cruel  snare  in  a pit 

To  catch  a friend  of  mine  one  stormy 
day ; 

Yet  now  I could  even  weep  to  think 
of  it ; 

For  what  will  the  old  man  say 

When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse 
in  the  pit  ? 


x. 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public 
foe. 

Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 

That  were  a public  merit,  far, 

Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from 
sin ; 

But  the  red  life  spilt  for  a private 
blow  — 

I swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless 
war 

Are  scarcely  even  akin. 


XI. 

0 me,  why  have  they  not  buried  me 

deep  enough  ? 

Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a grave  so 
rough, 

Me,  that  was  never  a quiet  sleeper  ? 
Maybe  still  I am  but  half-dead ; 

Then  I cannot  be  wholly  dumb  ; 

1 will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my*  head 
And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind 

heart  will  come 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 


PART  III. 


My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a broken  wing 
Thro’  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror  and  fear, 
That  I come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a little  thing: 
My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a time  of  year 
When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the  dewy  downs, 


MAUD. 


461 


And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the  Charioteer 
And  starry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious  crowns 
Over  Orion’s  grave  low  down  in  the  west, 

That  like  a silent  lightning  under  the  stars 

She  seem’d  to  divide  in  a dream  from  a band  of  the  blest, 

And  spoke  of  a hope  for  the  world  in  the  coming  wars  — 

“ And  in  that  hope,  dear  soul,  let  trouble  have  rest, 

Knowing  I tarry  for  thee,”  and  pointed  to  Mars 

As  he  glow’d  like  a ruddy  shield  on  the  Lion’s  breast. 


And  it  was  but  a dream,  yet  it  yielded  a dear  delight 
To  have  look’d,  tho’  but  in  a dream,  upon  eyes  so  fair, 

That  had  been  in  a weary  world  my  one  thing  bright ; 

And  it  was  but  a dream,  yet  it  lighten’d  my  despair 

When  I thought  that  a war  would  arise  in  defence  of  the  right, 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend  or  cease, 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  ancient  height, 

Nor  Britain’s  one  sole  God  be  the  millionaire  : 

No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all,  and  Peace 
Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a languid  note, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd  increase, 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a slothful  shore, 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  cannon’s  throat 
Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no  more. 

hi. 

And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumor  of  battle  grew, 

“ It  is  time,  it  is  time,  O passionate  heart,’*  said  I 

(For  I cleaved  to  a cause  that  I felt  to  be  pure  and  true), 

“ It  is  time,  O passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 

That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should  die.” 

And  I stood  on  a giant  deck  and  mix’d  my  breath 
With  a loyal  people  shouting  a battle  cry, 

Till  I saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 
Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas  of  death. 

iv 

Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I wake  to  the  higher  aims 
Of  a land  that  has  lost  for  a little  her  lust  of  gold, 

And  love  of  a peace  that  was  full  of  wrongs  and  shames, 
Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be  told ; 

And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  battle  unroll’d! 

Tho’  many  a light  shall  darken,  and  many  shall  weep 
For  those  that  are  crush’d  in  the  clash  of  jarring  claims. 

Yet  God’s  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak’d  on  a giant  liar; 

And  many  a darkness  into  the  light  shall  leap, 

And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid  names, 

And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun, 

And  the  heart  of  a people  beat  with  one  desire ; 


462 


MAUD. 


For  the  peace,  that  I deem’d  no  peace,  is  over  and  done, 
And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and  the  Baltic  deep. 
And  deathful-grinning  mouths  of  the  fortress,  flames 
The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a heart  of  fire. 


Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll  down  like  a wind, 

We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a cause,  we  are  noble  still, 
And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems,  to  the  better  mind; 

It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good  than  to  rail  at  the  ill ; 

I have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I am  one  with  my  kind, 

I embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the  doom  assign’d. 


ENOCH  ARDEN 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 

Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left 
a chasm ; 

And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yel- 
low sands; 

Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a narrow 
wharf 

In  cluster ; then  a moulder’d  church ; 
and  higher 

A long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower’d 
mill ; 

And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a gray 
down 

With  Danish  barrows ; and  a hazel- 
wood, 

By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 

Green  in  a cuplike  hollow  of  the 
down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a hundred  years 
ago, 

Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie 
Lee, 

The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 

And  Philip  Ray  the  miller’s  only  son, 

And  Enoch  Arden,  a rough  sailor’s  lad 

Made  orphan  by  a winter  shipwreck, 
play’d 

Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the 
shore, 

Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fish- 
ing-nets, 

Anchors  of  rusty-fluke,  and  boats  up- 
drawn  ; 


And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving 
sand 

To  watch  them  overflow’d,  or  follow- 
ing up 

And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily 
left 

The  little  footprint  daily  wash’d  away. 

A narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the 
cliff: 

In  this  the  children  play’d  at  keeping 
house. 

Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the 
next, 

While  Annie  still  was  mistress ; but 
at  times 

Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a 
week: 

“ This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little 
wife.” 

“ Mine  too  ” said  Philip  “ turn  and 
turn  about  ” : 

When,  if  they  quarrell’d,  Enoch 
stronger-made 

Was  master:  then  would  Philip,  his 
blue  £yes 

All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of 
tears, 

Shriek  out  “ I hate  you,  Enoch,”  and 
at  this 

The  little  wife  would  weep  for  com- 
pany, 

And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her 
sake, 

And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to 
both. 


464 


ENOCH  A EDEN 


But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  child- 
hood past, 

And  the  new  warmth  of  life’s  ascend- 
ing sun 

Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his 
heart 

On  that  one  girl ; and  Enoch  spoke 
his  love, 

But  Philip  loved  in  silence ; and  the 
girl 

Seem’d  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to 
him ; 

But  she  loved  Enoch ; tho’  she  knew 
it  not, 

And  would  if  ask’d  deny  it.  Enoch 
set 

A purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes, 

To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 

To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make 
a home 

For  Annie:  and  so  prosper’d  that  at 
last 

A luckier  or  a bolder  fisherman, 

A carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 

For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten 
coast 

Than  Enoch.  Likewise  had  he  served 
a year 

On  board  a merchantman,  and  made 
himself 

Full  sailor ; and  he  thrice  had  pluck’d 
a life 

From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down- 
streaming seas : 

And  all  men  look’d  upon  him  favora- 
bly: 

And  ere  he  touch’d  his  one-and- 
twentieth  May, 

He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made 
a home 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestl^e,  halfway 
up 

The  narrow  street  that  clamber’d 
toward  the  mill. 

Then,  on  a golden  autumn  even- 
tide, 

The  younger  people  making  holiday, 

With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great 
and  small, 

Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.  Philip 
stay’d 


(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing 
him) 

An  hour  behind ; but  as  he  climb’d 
the  hill, 

Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the 
wood  began 

To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the 
pair, 

Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in- 
hand, 

His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather- 
beaten face 

All-kindled  by  a still  and  sacred  fire, 

That  burn’d  as  on  an  altar.  Philip 
look’d, 

And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his 
doom ; 

Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together, 
groan’d, 

And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a wounded 
life 

Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the 
wood ; 

There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  in 
merrymaking, 

Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose 
and  past 

Bearing  a lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily 
rang  the  bells, 

And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven 
happy  years, 

Seven  happy  years  of  health  and 
competence, 

And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil ; 

With  children ; first  a daughter.  In 
him  woke, 

With  his  first  babe’s  first  cry,  the 
noble  wish 

To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 

And  give  his  child  a better  bringing-up 

Than  his  had  been,  or  hers ; a wish 
renew’d, 

When  two  years  after  came  a boy  to  be 

The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 

While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful 
seas, 

Or  often  journeying  landward  ; for  in 
truth 

Enoch’s  white  horse,  and  Enoch’s 
ocean-spoil 


ENOCH  A EDEN 


465 


In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 

Rough-redden’d  with  a thousand  win- 
ter gales, 

Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were 
known, 

But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the 
down, 

Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp, 

And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonely 
Hail, 

Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch’s  min- 
istering. 

Then  came  a change,  as  all  things 
human  change. 

Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow 
port 

Open’d  a larger  haven  : thither  used 

Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or 
sea; 

And  once  when  there,  and  clambering 
on  a mast 

In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and 
fell: 

A limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted 
him ; 

And  while  he  lay  recovering  there, 
his  wife 

Bore  him  another  son,  a sickly  one  : 

Another  hand  crept  too  across  his 
trade 

Taking  her  bread  and  theirs  : and  on 
him  fell, 

Altho’  a grave  and  staid  God-fearing 
man, 

Yet  lying  thus  inactive,  doubt  and 
gloom. 

He  seem’d,  as  in  a nightmare  of  the 
night, 

To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 

Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth, 

And  her,  he  loved,  a beggar : then  he 
pray’d 

“ Save  them  from  this,  whatever 
comes  to  me.” 

And  while  he  pray’d,  the  master  of 
that  ship 

Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mis- 
chance, 

Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and 
valued  him, 

Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 


And  wanting  yet  a boatswain.  Would 
he  go  ? 

There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she 
sail’d, 

Sail’d  from  this  port.  Would  Enoch 
have  the  place  ? 

And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 

Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance 
appear’d 

No  graver  than  as  when  some  little- 
cloud 

Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 

And  isles  a light  in  the  offing : yet  the 
wife  — 

When  he  was  gone  — the  children  — 
what  to  do  ? 

Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 
plans ; 

To  sell  the  boat  — and  yet  he  loved 
her  well  — 

How  many  a rough  sea  had  he  weath- 
er’d in  her ! 

He  knew  her,  as  a horseman  knows  his 
horse  — 

And  yet  to  sell  her  — then  with  what 
she  brought 

Buy  goods  and  stores  — set  Annie  forth 
in  trade 

With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their 
wives  — 

So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he 
was  gone. 

Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yon- 
der? go 

This  voyage  more  than  once?  yea  twice 
or  thrice  — 

As  oft  as  needed  — last,  returning  rich, 

Become  the  master  of  a larger  craft, 

With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 

Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  edu- 
cated, 

And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his 
own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined 
all: 

Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie 
pale, 

Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-born. 

Forward  she  started  with  a happy  cry, 


466 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms  ; 

Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his 
limbs, 

Appraised  his  weight  and  fondled 
fatherlike, 

But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 

To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he 
spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch’s  golden  ring 
had  girt 

Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his 
will : 

Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 

But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a tear, 

Many  a sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  re- 
new’d 

(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of 
it) 

Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 

For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 

He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 

Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in 
vain ; 

So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it 
thro’. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea- 
friend, 

Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and 
set  his  hand 

To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting- 
room 

With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods 
and  stores. 

So  all  day  long  till  Enoch’s  last  at 
home, 

Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer 
and  axe, 

Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem’d  to 
hear 

Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrill’d 
and  rang, 

Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful 
hand,  — 

The  space  was  narrow,  — having  or- 
der’d all 

Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature 
packs 

Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused ; 
and  he, 


Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to 
the  last, 

Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of 
farewell 

Brightly  and  boldly.  All  his  Annie’s 
fears, 

Save,  as  his  Annie’s,  were  a laughter 
to  him. 

Yet  Enoch  as  a brave  God-fearing  man 

Bow’d  himself  down,  and  in  that  mys- 
tery 

Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man- 
in-Gpd, 

Pray’d  for  a blessing  on  his  wife  and 
babes 

Whatever  came  to  him : and  then  he 
said 

“Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of 
God 

Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 

Keep  a clean  hearth  and  a clear  fire  for 
me, 

For  I’ll  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you 
know  it.” 

Then  lightly  rocking  baby’s  cradle 
“ and  he, 

This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one, — 

Nay  — for  I love  him  all  the  better  for 
it  — 

God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my 
knees 

And  I will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign 
parts, 

And  make  him  merry,  when  I come 
home  again. 

Come,  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I 
go.” 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she 
heard, 

And  almost  hoped  herself  ; but  when 
he  turn’d 

The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things 

In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 

On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven, 
she  heard, 

Heard  and  not  heard  him ; as  the  vil- 
lage girl, 

Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the 
spring, 


ENOCH  A EDEN 


467 


Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for 
her, 

Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  over- 
flow. 

At  length  she  spoke  “ 0 Enoch,  you 
are  wise ; 

And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well 
know  I 

That  I shall  look  upon  your  face  no 
more.” 

“ Well  then,”  said  Enoch,  “ I shall 
look  on  yours. 

Annie,  the  ship  I sail  in  passes  here 

( He  named  the  day)  get  you  a seaman’s 
glass, 

Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your 
fears.” 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  mo- 
ments came, 

“ Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  he  com- 
forted, 

Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I come 
again 

Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I must 
go. 

And  fear  no  more  for  me ; or  if  you 
fear 

Cast  all  your  cares  on  God ; that  an- 
chor holds. 

Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 

Parts  of  the  morning  1 if  I flee  to  these 

Can  I go  from  Him  ? and  the  sea  is  His, 

The  sea  is  His  : He  made  it.” 

Enoch  rose, 

Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  droop- 
ing wife, 

And  kiss’d  his  wonder-stricken  little 
ones ; ^ 

But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who 
slept 

After  a night  of  feverous  wakefulness, 

When  Annie  would  have  raised  him 
Enoch  said 

“Wake  him  not;  let  him  sleep  ; how 
should  the  child 

Remember  this  1 ” and  kiss’d  him  in 
his  cot. 

But  Annie  from  her  baby’s  forehead 
dipt 


A tiny  curl,  and  gave  it : this  he  kept 

Thro’  all  his  future ; but  now  hastily 
caught 

His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went 
his  way. 

She,  when  the  day  that  Enoch 
mention’d,  came, 

Borrow’d  a glass,  but  all  in  vain : 
perhaps 

She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her 
eye; 

Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  trem- 
ulous ; 

She  saw  him  not : and  while  he  stood 
on  deck 

Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel 
past. 

Ev’n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing 
sail 

She  watch’d  it,  and  departed  weeping 
for  him ; 

Then,  tho’  she  mourn’d  his  absence  as 
his  grave, 

Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with 
his, 

But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being 
bred 

To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 

By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 

Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less, 

And  still  foreboding  “what  would 
Enoch  say  ? ” 

For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  diffi- 
culty 

And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares 
for  less 

Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what 
she  sold : 

She  fail’d  and  sadden’d  knowing  it; 
and  thus, 

Expectant  of  that  news  which  never 
came, 

Gain’d  for  her  own  a scanty  suste- 
nance, 

And  lived  a life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-born 
and  grew 

Yet  sicklier,  tho’  the  mother  cared  for 
it 


46S 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


With  all  a mother’s  care:  neverthe- 
less, 

Whether  her  business  often  call’d  her 
from  it, 

Or  thro’  the  want  of  what  it  needed 
most, 

Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best 
could  tell 

What  most  it  needed  — howsoe’er  it 
was, 

After  a lingering,  — ere  she  was 
aware,  — 

Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie 
buried  it, 

Philip’s  true  heart,  which  hunger’d  for 
her  peace 

(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look’d 
upon  her), 

Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so 
long. 

“ Surely,”  said  Philip,  “ I may  see  her 
now, 

May  be  some  little  comfort”;  there- 
fore went, 

Past  thro’  the  solitary  room  in  front, 
Paused  for  a moment  at  an  inner  door, 
Then  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one 
opening, 

Enter’d ; but  Annie,  seated  with  her 
grief, 

Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
But  turn’d  her  own  toward  the  wall 
and  wept. 

Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falter- 
ingly 

“ Annie,  I came  to  ask  a favor  of  you.” 

He  spoke ; the  passion  in  her  moan’d 
reply 

“ Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I am ! ” half  abash’d  him ; yet 
unask’d, 

His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to 
her : 

“ I came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he 
wish’d, 


Enoch,  your  husband : I have  ever 
said 

You  chose  the  best  among  us  — a 
strong  man : 

For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his 
hand 

To  do  the  thing  he  will’d,  and  bore  it 
thro’. 

And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary 
way, 

And  leave  you  lonely  ? not  to  see  the 
world  — 

For  pleasure  1 — nay,  but  for  the 
wherewithal 

To  give  his  babes  a better  bringing-up 

Than  his  had  been,  or  yours  : that  was 
his  wish. 

And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 

To  find  the  precious  morning  hours 
were  lost. 

And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his 
grave, 

If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  run- 
ning wild 

Like  colts  about  the  waste.  So,  Annie, 
now  — 

Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our 
lives  ? 

I do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you 
bear 

Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me 
nay  — 

For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes 
again 

Why  then  he  shall  repay  me  — if  you 
will, 

Annie  — for  I am  rich  and  well-to-do. 

Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 
school : 

This  is  the  favor  that  I came  to  ask.” 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against 
the  wall 

Answer’d  “ I cannot  look  you  in  the 
face ; 

I seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 

When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke 
me  down; 

And  now  I think  your  kindness  breaks 
me  down ; 

But  Enoch  lives ; that  is  borne  in  on 
me : 


ENOCH  A EDEN. 


469 


fie  will  repay  you:  money  can  be 
repaid ; 

Not  kindness  such  as  yours.” 

And  Philip  ask’d 
“ Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ? ” 

There  she  turn’d, 
She  rose,  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes 
upon  him, 

And  dwelt  a moment  on  his  kindly 
face, 

Then  calling  down  a blessing  on  his 
head 

Caught  at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  pas- 
sionately. 

And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 
school, 

And  bought  them  needful  books,  and 
everyway, 

Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 
Made  himself  theirs ; and  tho’  for 
Annie’s  sake, 

Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port, 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest 
wish, 

And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet 
he  sent 

Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs 
and  fruit, 

The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and 
then, 

With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the 
meal 

To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the 
waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie’s 
mind : 

Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came 
upon  her, 

Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  grati- 
tude 

Light  on  a broken  word  to  thank  him 
with. 

But  Philip  was  her  children’s  all-in- 
all; 


From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they 
ran 

To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily; 

Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were 
> they.; 

Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty 
wrongs 

Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play’d 
with  him 

And  call’d  him  Father  Philip.  Philip 
gain’d 

As  Enoch  lost;  for  Enoch  seem’d  to 
them 

Uncertain  as  a vision  or  a dream, 

Faint  as  a figure  seen  in  early  dawn 

Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 

Going  we  know  not  where : and  so  ten 
years, 

Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native 
land, 

Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch 
came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie’s  chil- 
dren long’d 

To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 

And  Annie  would  go  with  them ; then 
they  begg’d 

For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call’d  him) 
too : 

Him,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom- 
dust. 

Blanch’d  with  his  mill,  they  found ; 
and  saying  to  him 

“Come  with  us  Father  Philip”  he 
denied ; 

But  when  the  children  pluck’d  at  him 
to  go, 

He  laugh’d,  and  yielded  readily  to 
their  wish, 

For  was  not  Annie  with  them  1 and 
they  went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary 
down, 

Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 
began 

To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her 
force 

Fail’d  her ; and  sighing,  “ Let  me  rest  ” 
she  said : 

So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content; 


470 


ENOCH  A EDEN. 


While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubi- 
lant cries 

Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumul- 
tuously 

Down  thro’  the  whitening  hazels  made 
a plunge 

To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and 
bent  or  broke 

The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear 
away 

Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each 
other 

And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the 
wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 

Her  presence,  and  remember’d  one 
dark  hour 

Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a wounded 
life 

He  crept  into  the  shadow : at  last  he 
said, 

Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  “Listen, 
Annie, 

How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in 
the  wood. 

Tired,  Annie  1 ” for  she  did  not  speak 
a word. 

“ Tired  ? ” but  her  face  had  fall’n  upon 
her  hands ; 

At  which,  as  with  a kind  of  anger  in 
him, 

“The  ship  was  lost,”  he  said,  “the 
ship  was  lost ! 

No  more  of  that ! why  should  you  kill 
yourself 

And  make  them  orphans  quite?”  And 
Annie  said 

“ I thought  not  of  it : but  — I know 
not  why  — 

Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary.” 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer 
spoke. 

“ Annie,  there  is  a thing  upon  my 
mind, 

And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long, 

That  tho’  I know  not  when  it  first 
came  there, 

I know  that  it  will  out  at  last.  0 
Annie, 


It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all 
chance, 

That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years 
ago 

Should  still  be  living ; well  then  — 
let  me  speak  : 

I grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting 
help : 

I cannot  help  you  as  I wish  to  do 

Unless  — they  say  that  women  are  so 
quick  — 

Perhaps  you  know  what  I would  have 
you  know  — 

I wish  you  for  my  wife.  I fain  would 
prove 

A father  to  your  children : I do 
think 

They  love  me  as  a father : I am  sure 

That  I love  them  as  if  they  were  mine 
own  ; 

And  I believe,  if  you  were  fast  my 
wife, 

That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain 
years, 

We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God 
grants 

To  any  of  his  creatures.  Think  upon 
it : 

For  I am  well-to-do  — no  kin,  no  care, 

No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and 
yours  : 

And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our 
lives, 

And  I have  loved  you  longer  than  you 
know.” 

Then  answer’d  Annie  ; tenderly  she 
spoke : 

“ You  have  been  as  God’s  good  angel 
in  our  house. 

God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you 
for  it, 

Philip,  with  something  happier  than 
myself. 

Can  one  love  twice  ? can  you  be  ever 
loved 

As  Enoch  was  ? what  is  it  that  you 
ask  ? ” 

“ I am  content  ” he  answer’d  “ to  be 
loved 

A little  after  Enoch.”  “ O ” she 
cried, 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


471 


Scared  as  it  were,  “dear  Philip,  wait 
a while  : 

If  Enoch  comes  — but  Enoch  will  not 
come  — 

Yet  wait  a year,  a year  is  not  so  long: 

Surely  I shall  be  wiser  in  a year  : 

0 wait  a little ! ” Philip  sadly  said 

“ Annie,  as  I have  waited  all  my  life 

1 well  may  wait  a little.”  “ Nay  ” she 

cried 

“ I am  bound  : you  have  my  promise 
— in  a year : 

Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I bide 
mine  ? ” 

And  Philip  answer’d  “ I will  bide  my 
year.” 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philip 
glancing  up 

Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen 
day 

Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  over- 
head ; 

Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for 
Annie,  rose 

And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro’ 
the  wood. 

Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their 
spoil ; 

Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and 
there 

At  Annie’s  door  he  paused  and  gave 
his  hand, 

Saying  gently  “ Annie,  when  I spoke 
to  you, 

That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.  I 
was  wrong, 

I am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you 
are  free.” 

Then  Annie  weeping  answer’d  “I  am 
bound.” 

She  spoke  ; and  in  one  moment  as 
it  were, 

While  yet  she  went  about  her  house- 
hold ways, 

Ev’n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest 
words, 

That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she 
knew, 

That  autumn  into  autumn  flash’d 
again, 


And  there  he  stood  once  more  before 
her  face, 

Claiming  her  promise.  “ Is  it  a year  ? ” 
she  ask’d. 

“ Yes,  if  the  nuts  ” he  said  “ be  ripe 
again  : 

Come  out  and  see.”  But  she  — she 
put  him  off  — 

So  much  to  look  to  — such  a change 
— a month  — 

Give  her  a month  — she  knew  that 
she  was  bound  — 

A month  — no  more.  Then  Philip 
with  his  eyes 

Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his 
voice 

Shaking  a little  like  a drunkard’s  hand, 
“Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take 
your  own  time.” 

And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity 
of  him ; 

And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-suffer- 
ance, 

Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but 
trifle  with  her ; 

Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw 
him  on  ; 

And  others  laugh’d  at  her  and  Philip 
too, 

As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their 
own  minds, 

And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.  Her 
own  son 

Was  silent,  tho’  he  often  look’d  his 
wish ; 

But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon 
her 

To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty ; 
And  Philip’s  rosy  face  contracting 
grew 

Careworn  and  wan ; and  all  these 
things  fell  on  her 


472 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 

That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  ear- 
nestly 

Pray’d  for  a sign  “my  Enoch  is  he 
gone  ? ” 

Then  compass’d  round  by  the  blind 
wall  of  night 

Brook’d  not  the  expectant  terror  of 
her  heart, 

Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself 
a light, 

Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 

Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a sign, 

Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 

“ Under  the  palm-tree.”  That  was 
nothing  to  her : 

No  meaning  there : she  closed  the 
Book  and  slept : 

When  lo  ! her  Enoch  sitting  on  a 
height, 

Under  a palm-tree,  over  him  the 
Sun : 

“ He  is  gone,”  she  thought,  “ he  is 
happy,  he  is  singing 

Hosanna  in  the  highest : yonder  shines 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these 
be  palms 

Whereof  the  happy  people  strowing 
cried 

‘ Hosanna  in  the  highest ! ’ ” Here 
she  woke, 

Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly 
to  him 

“There  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
not  wed.” 

“ Then  for  God’s  sake,”  he  answer’d, 
“ both  our  sakes, 

So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once.” 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang 
the  bells, 

Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were 
wed. 

But  never  merrily  beat  Annie’s  heart. 

A footstep  seem’d  to  fall  beside  her 
path, 

She  knew  not  whence ; a whisper  on 
her  ear, 

She  knew  not  what-,  nor  loved  she  to 
be  left 


Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out 
alone. 

What  ail’d  her  then,  that  ere  she 
enter’d,  often 

Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the 
latch, 

Fearing  to  enter:  Philip  thought  he 
knew: 

Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common 
to  her  state, 

Being  with  child  : but  when  her  child 
was  born, 

Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself 
renew’d, 

Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her 
heart, 

Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 

And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly 
died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  ? prosper- 
ously sail’d 

The  ship  “ Good  Fortune,”  tho’  at 
setting  forth 

The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward, 
shook 

And  almost  overwhelm’d  her,  yet 
unvext 

She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the 
world, 

Then  after  a long  tumble  about  the 
Cape 

And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and 
fair, 

She  passing  thro’  the  summer  world 
again, 

The  breath  of  heaven  came  continu- 
ally 

And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden 
isles, 

Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself, 
and  bought 

Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of 
those  times, 

A gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage : at 
first  indeed 

Thro’  many  a fair  sea-circle,  day  by 
day, 


ENOCH  ARDEN 


473 


Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure- 
head 

Stared  o’er  the  ripple  feathering  from 
her  bows : 

Then  follow’d  calms,  and  then  winds 
variable, 

Then  baffling,  a long  course  of  them ; 
and  last 

Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moon- 
less heavens 

Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  “ breakers  ” 
came 

The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 

But  Enoch  and  two  others.  Half  the 
night, 

Buoy’d  upon  floating  tackle  and 
broken  spars, 

These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at 
morn 

Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  suste- 
nance, 

Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nour- 
ishing roots ; 

Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 

The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was 
tame. 

There  in  a seaward-gazing  mountain- 
gorge 

They  built,  and  thatch’d  with  leaves 
of  palm,  a hut, 

Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.  So  the 
three, 

Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness, 

Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill- 
content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more 
than  boy, 

Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and 
wreck, 

Lay  lingering  out  a five-years’  death- 
in-life. 

They  could  not  leave  him.  After  he 
was  gone, 

The  two  remaining  found  a fallen 
stem ; 

And  Enoch’s  comrade,  careless  of 
himself, 

Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion, 
fell 


Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived 
alone. 

In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God’s 
warning  “ wait.” 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak, 
the  lawns 

And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways 
to  Heaven, 

The  slender  coco’s  drooping  crown  of 
plumes, 

The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of 
bird, 

The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil’d  around  the  stately  stems, 
and  ran 

Ev’n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the 
world. 

All  these  he  saw;  but  what  he  fain 
had  seen 

He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human 
face, 

Nor  ever  hear  a kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean- 
fowl, 

The  league-long  roller  thundering  on 
the  reef, 

The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees 
that  branch’d 

And  blossom’d  in  the  zenith,  or  the 
sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the 
wave, 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all 
day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A shipwreck’d  sailor,  waiting  for  a 
sail : 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and 
precipices  ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 
Then  the  great  stars  that  globed 
themselves  in  Heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and 
again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunri.ie  — but  no 
sail. 


474 


ENOCH  ARDEN 


There  often  as  he  watch’d  or  seem’d 
to  watch, 

So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him 
paused, 

A phantom  made  of  many  phantoms 
moved 

Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  him- 
self 

Moved  haunting  people,  things  and 
places,  known 

Far  in  a darker  isle  beyond  the  line ; 

The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the 
small  house, 

The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the 
leafy  lanes, 

The  peacock-yewtree  and  the  lonely 
Hall, 

The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold, 
the  chill 

November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming 
downs, 

The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying 
leaves, 

And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color’d 
seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his 
ears, 

Tho’  faintly,  merrily  — far  and  far 
away  — 

He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish 
bells ; 

Then,  tho’  he  knew  not  wherefore, 
started  up 

Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous 
hateful  isle 

Return’d  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor 
heart 

Spoken  with  That,  which  being  every- 
where 

Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem 
all  alone, 

Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch’s  early-silvering 
head 

The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came 
and  went 

Year  after  year.  His  hopes  to  see 
his  own, 

And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar 
fields, 


Not  yet  had  perish’d,  when  his  lonely 
doom 

Came  suddenly  to  an  end.  Another 
ship 

(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling 
winds, 

Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her 
destined  course, 

Stay’d  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where 
she  lay : 

For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early 
dawn 

Across  a break  on  the  mist-wreathen 
isle 

The  silent  water  slipping  from  the 
hills, 

They  sent  a crew  that  landing  burst 
away 

In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and 
fill’d  the  shores 

With  clamor.  Downward  from  his 
mountain  gorge 

Stept  the  long-hair’d,  long-bearded 
solitary, 

Brown,  looking  hardly  human, 
strangely  clad, 

Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it 
seem’d, 

With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making 
signs 

They  knew  not  what : and  yet  he  led 
the  way 

To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet'  water 
ran ; 

And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew, 

And  heard  them  talking,  his  long- 
bounden  tongue 

Was  loosen’d,  till  he  made  them 
understand ; 

Whom,  when  their  casks  were  fill’d 
they  took  aboard : 

And  there  the  tale  he  utter’d  brokenly, 

Scarce-credited  at  first  but  more  and 
more, 

Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen’d 
to  it : 

And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free 
passage  home ; 

But  oft  he  work’d  among  the  rest  and 
shook 

His  isolation  from  him.  None  of 
these 


“ There  often  as  he  watched  or  seemed  to  watch, 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused.” 

Page  474. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


475 


Came  from  his  country,  or  could  an- 
swer him, 

If  question’d,  aught  of  what  he  cared 
to  know. 

And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long 
delays, 

The  vessel  scarce  seawvorthy ; but 
evermore 

His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 

Returning,  till  beneath  a clouded 
moon 

He  like  a lover  down  thro’  all  his 
blood 

Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning- 
breath 

Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly 
wall : 

And  that  same  morning  officers  and 
men 

Levied  a kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 

Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him 
it : 

Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed 
him, 

Ev’n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail’d 
before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any 
one, 

But  homeward  — home  — what  home? 
had  he  a home  1 

His  home,  he  walk’d.  Bright  was  that 
afternoon, 

Sunny  but  chill ; till  drawn  thro’  either 
chasm, 

Where  either  haven  open’d  on  the 
deeps, 

Roll’d  a sea-haze  and  whelm’d  the 
world  in  gray ; 

Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  be- 
fore. 

And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left 
and  right 

Of  wither’d  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 

On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  robin 
piped 

Disconsolate,  and  thro’  the  dripping 
haze 

The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore 
it  dow  n : 

Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the 
gloom ; 


Last,  as  it  seem’d,  a great  mist-blotted 
light 

Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the 
place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having 
slowly  stolen, 

His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 

His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach’d 
the  home 

Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and 
his  babes 

In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were 
born ; 

But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur 
there 

(A  bill  of  sale  gleam’d  thro’  the  drizzle) 
crept 

Still  downward  thinking  “ dead  or 
dead  to  me  ! ” 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf 
he  went, 

Seeking  a tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 

A front  of  timber-crost  antiquity, 

So  propt,  worm  eaten,  ruinously  old, 

He  thought  it  must  have  gone  ; but  he 
was  gone 

Who  kept  it ; and  his  widow  Miriam 
Lane, 

With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the 
house ; 

A haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but 
now 

Stiller,  with  yet  a bed  for  wandering 
men. 

There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and 
garrulous, 

Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 

Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the 
port, 

Not  knowing  — Enoch  was  so  brown, 
so  bow’d, 

So  broken  — all  the  story  of  his  house. 

His  baby’s  death,  her  growing  poverty, 

How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to 
school, 

And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing 
her, 


476 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and 
the  birth 

Of  Philip’s  child : and  o’er  his  coun- 
tenance 

No  shadow  past,  nor  motion  : any  one, 

Regarding,  well  had  deem’d  he  felt 
the  tale 

Less  than  the  teller:  only  when  she 
closed 

“Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and 
lost” 

He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 

Repeated  muttering  “ cast  away  and 
lost  ” ; 

Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers 
“ lost ! ” 

But  Enoch  yearn’d  to  see  her  face 
again; 

“If  I might  look  on  her  sweet  face 
again 

And  know  that  she  is  happy.”  So  the 
thought 

Haunted  and  harass’d  him,  and  drove 
him  forth, 

At  evening  when  the  dull  November 
day 

Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the 
hill. 

There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below ; 

There  did  a thousand  memories  roll 
upon  him, 

Unspeakable  for  sadness.  By  and  by 

The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 

Ear-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip’s 
house, 

Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  al- 
lures 

The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly 
strikes 

Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary 
life. 


Eor  Philip’s  dwelling  fronted  on  the 
street, 

The  latest  house  to  landward ; but  be- 
hind, 

With  one  small  gate  that  open’d  on 
the  waste, 

Flourish’d  a little  garden  square  and 
wall’d : 


And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 

A yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a walk 

Of  shingle,  and  a walk  divided  it : 

But  Enoch  shunn’d  the  middle  walk 
and  stole 

Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ; and 
thence 

That  which  he  better  might  have 
shunn’d,  if  griefs 

Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch 
saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish’d 
board 

Sparkled  and  shone  ; so  genial  was  the 
hearth : 

And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth 
he  saw 

Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times. 

Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his 
knees ; 

And  o’er  her  second  father  stoopt  a 
girl, 

A later  but  a loftier  Annie  Lee, 

Eair-hair’d  and  tall,  and  from  her 
lifted  hand 

Dangled  a length  of  ribbon  and  a ring 

To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear’d  his 
creasy  arms, 

Caught  at  and  ever  miss’d  it,  and  they 
laugh’d ; 

And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he 
saw 

The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her 
babe, 

But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak 
with  him, 

Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and 
strong, 

And  saying  that  which  pleased  him, 
for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life 
beheld 

His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the 
babe 

Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father’s 
knee, 

And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the 
happiness, 

And  his  own  children  tall  and  beauti- 
ful, 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


477 


And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his 
place, 

Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children’s 
love, — 

Then  he,  tho’  Miriam  Lane  had  told 
him  all, 

Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than 
things  heard, 

Stagger’d  and  shook,  holding  the 
branch,  and  fear’d 

To  send  abroad  a shrill  and  terrible 
cry, 

Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast 
of  doom, 

Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the 
hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a 
thief, 

Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate 
underfoot, 

And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall. 

Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and 
be  found, 

Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open’d  it,  and 
closed, 

As  lightly  as  a sick  man’s  chamber- 
door, 

Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the 
waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but 
that  his  knees 

Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he 
dug 

His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and 
pray’d. 

“Too  hard  to  bear!  why  did  they 
take  me  thence  ? 

0 God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour, 
Thou 

That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely 
isle, 

Uphold  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 

A little  longer ! aid  me,  give  me 
strength 

Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 

Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her 
peace. 

My  children  too ! must  I not  speak  to 
these  1 


They  know  me  not.  I should  betray 
myself. 

Never : No  father’s  kiss  for  me  — the 
girl 

So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my 
son.” 

There  speech  and  thought  and  na- 
ture fail’d  a little, 

And  he  lay  tranced ; but  when  he  rose 
and  paced 

Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 

All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street 
he  went 

Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 

As  tho’  it  were  the  burthen  of  a song, 

“Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her 
know.” 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.  His  resolve 

Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  ever- 
more 

Prayer  from  a living  source  within  the 
will, 

And  beating  up  thro’  all  the  bitter 
world, 

Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the 
sea, 

Kept  him  a living  soul.  “This  mil- 
ler’s wife  ” 

He  said  to  Miriam  “that  you  spoke 
about, 

Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband 
lives  1 ” 

“Ay,  ay,  poor  soul”  said  Miriam, 
“ fear  enow ! 

If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him 
dead, 

Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort ; ” 
and  he  thought 

“ After  the  Lord  has  call’d  me  she 
shall  know, 

I wait  His  time,”  and  Enoch  set  him- 
self, 

Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby 
to  live. 

Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his 
hand. 

Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and 
wrought 

To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or 
help’d 


478 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 

That  brought  the  stinted  commerce 
of  those  days ; 

Thus  earn’d  a scanty  living  for  him- 
self : 

Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself, 

Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life 
in  it 

Whereby  the  man  could  live ; and  as 
the  year 

Roll’d  itself  round  again  to  meet  the 
day 

When  Enoch  had  return’d,  a languor 
came 

Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 

Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do 
no  more, 

But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last 
his  bed. 

And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheer- 
fully. 

For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded 
wreck 

See  thro’  the  gray  skirts  of  a lifting 
squall 

The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life 
approach 

To  save  the  life  despair’d  of,  than  he 
saw 

Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close 
of  all. 

For  thro’  that  dawning  gleam’d  a 
kindlier  hope 

On  Enoch  thinking  “after  I am 
gone, 

Then  may  she  learn  I lov’d  her  to  the 
last.” 

He  call’d  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and 
said 

“ W oman,  I have  a secret  — only  swear, 

Before  I tell  you  — swear  upon  the 
book 

Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead.” 

“Dead,”  clamor’d  the  good  woman, 
“ hear  him  talk  ! 

I warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring 
you  round.” 

“ Swear”  added  Enoch  sternly  “ on 
the  book.” 

And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam 
swore. 


Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon 
her, 

“ Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this 
town  1 ” 

“ Know  him  ? ” she  said  “ I knew  him 
far  away. 

Ay,  ay,  I mind  him  coming  down  the 
street ; 

Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no 
man,  he.” 

Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer’d 
her ; 

“ His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares 
for  him. 

I think  I have  not  three  days  more  to 
live ; 

I am  the  man.”  At  which  the  woman 
gave 

A half -incredulous,  half -hysterical 
cry. 

“ You  Arden,  you!  nay,  — sure  he  was 
a foot 

Higher  than  you  be.”  Enoch  said 
again 

“ My  God  has  bow’d  me  down  to  what 
I am ; 

My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken 
me ; 

Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I am  he 

Who  married  — but  that  name  has 
twice  been  changed  — 

I married  her  who  married  Philip 
Ray. 

Sit,  listen.”  Then  he  told  her  of  his 
voyage, 

His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming 
back, 

His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 

And  how  he  kept  it.  As  the  woman 
heard, 

Fast  flow’d  the  current  of  her  easy 
tears, 

While  in  her  heart  she  yearn’d  inces- 
santly 

To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little 
haven, 

Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his 
woes ; 

But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she 
forbore, 

Saying  only  “ See  your  bairns  before 
you  go ! 


“ Old  yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones.” 

Page  481. 


ENOCH  A EDEN. 


479 


Eh,  let  me  fetch  ’em,  Arden,”  and 
arose 

Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch 
hung 

A moment  on  her  words,  but  then 
replied: 

“ Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the 
last, 

But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I die. 

Sit  down  again ; mark  me  and  under- 
stand, 

While  I have  power  to  speak.  I 
charge  you  now, 

When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that 
I died 

Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving 
her; 

Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving 
her 

As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my 
own. 

And  tell  my  daughter  xinnie,  whom  I 
saw 

So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest 
breath 

Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  pray- 
ing for  her. 

And  tell  my  son  that  I died  blessing 
him. 

And  say  to  Philip  that  I blest  him 
too ; 

He  never  meant  us  any  thing  but  good. 

But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me 
dead, 

Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them 
come, 

I am  their  father ; but  she  must  not 
come, 

For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after- 
life. 

And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my 
blood 


Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to- 
be  : 

This  hair  is  his : she  cut  it  off  and 
gave  it, 

And  I have  borne  it  with  me  all  these 
years. 

And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my 
grave ; 

But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I 
shall  see  him, 

My  babe  in  bliss:  wherefore  when  I 
am  gone, 

Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort 
her : 

It  will  moreover  be  a token  to  her, 

That  I am  he.” 

He  ceased ; and  Miriam  Lane 

Made  such  a voluble  answer  promis- 
ing all, 

That  once  again  he  roll’d  his  eyes  up- 
on her 

Bepeating  all  he  wish’d,  and  once  again 

She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 

While  Enoch  slumber’d  motionless 
and  pale, 

And  Miriam  watch’d  and  dozed  at 
intervals, 

There  came  so  loud  a callingof  the  sea, 

That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 

He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms 
abroad 

Crying  with  a loud  voice  “A  sail!  a 
sail ! 

I am  saved ; ” and  so  fell  back  and 
spoke  no  more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 

And  when  they  buried  him  the  little 
port 

Had  seldom  seen  a costlier  funeral. 


480 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


IN  MEMORIAM  A.  H.  H. 

OBIIT  MDCCCXXXIII. 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy 
face, 

By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and 
shade ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and 
brute ; 

Thou  madest  Death ; and  lo,  thy 
foot 

Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not 
why, 

He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die; 

And  thou  hast  made  him : thou  art 
just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood, 
thou : 

Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not 
how ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them 
thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day , 

They  have  their  day  and  cease 
to  be : 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of 
thee, 

And  thou,  O Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith:  we  cannot  know; 

Bor  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from 
thee, 

A beam  in  darkness : let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to 
more, 

But  more  of  reverence  in  us 
dwell ; 


That  mind  and  soul,  according 
well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.  We  are  fools  and  slight; 

We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not 
fear: 

But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem’d  my  sin  in  me ; 

What  seem’d  my  worth  since  I 
began ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 

Thy  creature,  whom  I found  so 
fair. 

I trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering 
cries, 

Confusions  of  a wasted  youth  ; 

Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in 
truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

1849. 


I held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping- 
stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a gain  to  match  1 
Or  reach  a hand  thro’  time  to 
catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be 
drown’d, 


IN  MEMOR/AM. 


481 


Let  darkness  keep  her  raven 
gloss  : 

Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the 
ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should 
scorn 

The  long  result  of  love,  and 
boast, 

“Behold  the  man  that  loved  and 
lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn.” 
ii. 

Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead, 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  season^  bring  the  flower  again, 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the 
flock ; 

And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the 
clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of 
gloom : 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 

Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 

hi. 

0 Sorrow,  cruel  fellowship, 

O Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O sweet  and  bitter  in  a breath, 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  *? 

“ The  stars,”  she  whispers,  “ blindly 
run ; 

A web  is  wov’n  across  the  sky ; 
From  out  waste  places  comes  a 
cry, 

And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun : 


“And  all  the  phantom,  Nature, 
stands  — 

With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 

A hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — 

A hollow  form  with  empty  hands.” 

And  shall  I take  a thing  so  blind, 

Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good  ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a vice  of  blood, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  'i 

IV. 

To  Sleep  I give  my  powers  away ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark; 
I sit  within  a helmless  bark, 

And  with  my  heart  I muse  and  say: 

0 heart,  how  fares  it  Avith  thee  now, 
That  thou  should’st  fail  from  thy 
desire. 

Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire, 

“ What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ? ” 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early 
years. 

Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling 
tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  beloAV  the  darken’d 
eyes  ; 

With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and 
cries, 

“ Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss.” 


I sometimes  hold  it  half  a sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I feel ; 
For  Avords,  like  Nature,  half  re- 
veal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I’ll  wrap  me  o’er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the 
cold : 


482 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


But  that  large  grief  which  these 
enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


VI. 

One  writes,  that  “ Other  friends  re- 
main,” 

That  “ Loss  is  common  to  the 
race  ” — 

And  common  is  the  commonplace, 
And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more : 
Too  common ! Never  morning 
wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O father,  wheresoe’er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgestnowthy  gallant  son; 
A shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be 
done, 

Hath  still’d  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor,  — while  thy  head  is 
bow’d 

His  heavy-shotted  hammock- 
shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him 
well ; 

Who  mused  on  all  I had  to  tell, 
And  something  written,  something 
thought ; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home  ; 

And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  “ here  to- 
day,” 

Or  “here  to-morrow  will  he  come.” 

O somewhere,  meek,  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 
Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father’s  chimney  glows 
In  expectation  of  a guest ; 


And  thinking  “ this  will  please 
him  best,” 

She  takes  a riband  or  a rose ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night  ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color 
burns ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she 
turns 

Once  more  to  set  a ringlet  right ; 

And,  even  when  she  turn’d,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  Lord 
Was  drown’d  in  passing  thro’  the 
ford, 

Or  kill’d  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  1 
To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 

And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 

VII. 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I 
stand 

Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used 
to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a hand, 

A hand  that  can  be  clasp’d  no  more  — 
Behold  me,  for  I cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a guilty  thing  I creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ; but  far  away 

The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro’  the  drizzling 
rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank 
day. 

VIII. 

A happy  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  ’lights  and  rings  the  gate- 
way bell, 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from 
home ; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


483 


Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and 
hall, 

And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 
The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

So  find  I every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to 
meet, 

The  field,  the  chamber  and  the 
street, 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 
Which  once  she  foster’d  up  with  care ; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0 my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a vanish’d  eye, 

1 go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 

That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 

IX. 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur’s  loved  re- 
mains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him 
o’er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ; a favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror’d  mast,  and  lead 
Thro’  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor, 
bright 

As  our  pure  love,  thro’  early  light 
Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 
Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the 
prow; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps 
now, 

My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 


My  Arthur,  whom  I shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow’d  race  be  run  ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 
More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

x. 

I hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 

I hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night : 
I see  the  cabin-window  bright ; 

I see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bring’st  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell’d  men  from  foreign 
lands ; 

And  letters  unto  trembling  hands  ; 
And,  thy  dark  freight,  a vanish’d  life. 

So  bring  him  : we  have  idle  dreams  : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies  : O to  us, 
The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  tho 
rains, 

Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet 
drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in 
brine ; 

And  hands  so  often  clasp’d  in 
mine, 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 

XI. 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a calmer  grief, 
And  only  thro’  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench 
the  furze, 

And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 
That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn 
bowers, 


484 


IN  MEM  ORIAM. 


And  crowded  farms  and  lessening 
towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the 
fall; 

And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 
If  any  calm,  a calm  despair : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 
And  waves  that  sway  themselves 
in  rest, 

And  dead  calm  in  that  noble 
breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving 
deep. 

XII. 

Lo,  as  a dove  when  up  she  springs 
To  bear  thro’  Heaven  a tale  of  woe. 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 
The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings ; 

Like  her  I go  ; I cannot  stay ; 

I leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 

A weight  of  nerves  without  a mind, 
And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O’er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 

And  reach  the  glow  of  southern 
skies, 

And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 
And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  saying ; “ Comes  he  thus,  my 
friend  'l 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  ? ” 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air: 

“ Is  this  the  end  ? Is  this  the  end  ? ” 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn 
That  I have  been  an  hour  away. 

XIII. 

Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms, 
and  feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these  ; 


Which  weep  a loss  for  ever  new, 

A void  where  heart  on  heart  re- 
posed ; 

And,  where  warm  hands  have 
prest  and  closed, 

Silence,  till  I be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my 
choice. 

An  awful  thought,  a life  re- 
moved, 

The  human-hearted  man  I loved, 

A Spirit,  not  a breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many 
years, 

I do  not  suffer  in  a dream  : 

For  now  so  strange  do  these 
things  seem, 

Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their 
tears ; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And  glance  about  the  approach- 
ing sails, 

As  tho’  they  brought  but  mer- 
chants’ bales, 

And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 


XIV. 

If  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 

That  thou  hadst  touch’d  the  land 
to-day, 

And  I went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with 
woe, 

Should  see  thy  passengers  in 
rank 

Come  stepping  lightly  down  the 
plank, 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 

The  man  I held  as  half-divine ; 

Should  strike  a sudden  hand  in 
mine, 

And  ask  a thousand  things  of  home ; 


IN  MEM  OR /AM. 


485 


And  I should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 
And  how  my  life  had  droop’d  of 
late, 

And  he  should  sorrow  o’er  my 
state 

And  marvel  what  possess’d  my  brain ; 

And  I perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the 
same, 

I should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange, 
xv. 

To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 

And  roar  from  yonder  dropping 
day: 

The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl’d  away, 
The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies ; 

The  forest  crack’d,  the  waters  curl’d, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea; 
And  wildly  dash’d  on  tower  and 
tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world  : 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 

That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a plane  of  molten  glass, 
I scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and 
stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches 
loud ; 

And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 

The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 
Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 

And  onward  drags  a laboring 
breast, 

And  topples  round  the  dreary 
west, 

A looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 

XVI. 

What  words  are  these  have  fall’n 
from  me  1 

Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a single  breast, 

Or  sorrow  such  a changeling  be  ? 


Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or 
storm  ; 

But  knows  no  more  of  transient 
form 

In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  the  shadow  of  a lark 

Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a heaven  ? 
Or  has  tlie  shock,  so  harshly 
given, 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she 
sink  ? 

And  stunn’d  me  from  my  power 
to  think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself  ; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 

Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new, 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 

And  mingles  all  without  a plan  ? 

XVII. 

Thou  comest,  much  wept  for  : such  a 
breeze 

Compell’d  thy  canvas,  and  my 
prayer 

Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I in  spirit  saw  thee  move 

Thro’  circles  of  the  bounding 

sky, 

W eek  after  week  : the  days  go 
by: 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  may’st 
roam, 

My  blessing,  like  a line  of  light, 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night, 

And  like  a beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 

Mid-ocean,  spare  thee,  sacred 
bark ; 

And  balmy  drops  in  summer 
dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 


486 


IN  MEMOR/AM. 


So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by 
thee ; 

The  dust  of  him  I shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow’d  race  be  run. 

XVIII. 

’Tis  well ; ’tis  something ; we  may 
stand 

Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

’Tis  little  ; but  it  looks  in  truth 

As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the 
head 

That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of 
sleep, 

And  come,  whatever  loves  to 
weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev’n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 

I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 
Would  breathing  thro’  his  lips 
impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer 
mind, 

Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot 
find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX. 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken’d  heart  that  beat  no 
more ; 

They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant 
shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a day  the  Severn  fills ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 

And  hushes  half  the  babbling 
Wye, 

And  makes  a silence  in  the  hills. 


The  Wye  is  hush’d  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush’d  my  deepest  grief  of 

all, 

When  fill’d  with  tears  that  can- 
not fall, 

I brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  ; 

My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 

And  I can  speak  a little  then. 

xx. 

The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said, 
That  breathe  a thousand  tender 
vows, 

Are  but  as  servants  in  a house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is, 

And  weep  the  fulness  from  the 
mind : 

“ It  will  be  hard,”  they  say,  “ to 
find 

Another  service  such  as  this.” 

My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 
That  out  of  words  a comfort 
win ; 

But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain 
freeze ; 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of 
Death, 

And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the 
breath, 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit : 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 

So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and 
think, 

“ How  good ! how  kind ! and  he  is 
gone.” 

XXI. 

I sing  to  him  that  rests  below, 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  me 
wave. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


4S7 


I take  the  grasses  of  the  grave, 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to 
blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 
And  sometimes  harshly  will  he 
speak  : 

“ This  fellow  would  make  weak- 
ness weak, 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men.” 

Another  answers,  “ Let  him  be, 

He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy.” 

A third  is  wroth  : “ Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow’s  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more  the  people 
throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  '{ 

“ A time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 

When  Science  reaches  forth  her 
arms 

To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and 
charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  1 ” 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing  : 

Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust: 
I do  but  sing  because  I must, 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing  : 

And  one  is  glad ; her  note  is  gay, 

For  now  her  little  ones  have 
ranged; 

And  one  is  sad ; her  note  is 
changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol’n  away. 

XXII. 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 
Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased 
us  well, 

Thro’  four  sweet  years  arose  and 
fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to 
snow: 


And  we  with  singing  cheer’d  the  way, 
And,  crown’d  with  all  the  season 
lent. 

From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May : 

But  where  the  path  we  walk’d  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 
As  we  descended  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fear’d  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship, 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and 
cold, 

And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the 
fold, 

And  dull’d  the  murmur  on  thy  lip, 

And  bore  thee  where  I could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho’  I walk  in  haste, 
And  think,  that  somewhere  in  the 
waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 

XXIII. 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits. 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits. 

The  Shadow  cloak’d  from  head  to  foot. 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I wander,  often  falling  lame, 

And  looking  back  to  whence  I 
came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads  ; 

And  crying,  How  changed  from  where 
it  ran 

Thro’  lands  where  not  a leaf  was 
dumb ; 

But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 

The  murmur  of  a happy  Pan : 

When  each  byturnswas  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy 
caught, 

And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed 
with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with 
Speech ; 


488 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 
And  all  was  good  that  Time  could 
bring, 

And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 
Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood ; 

And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 
To  many  a flute  of  Arcady. 

XXIV. 

And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I say  ? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 
Is  dash’d  with  wandering  isles  of 
night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met, 

This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look’d  to  human  eyes 
Since  our  first  Sun  arose  and  set. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so 
great  1 

The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 
That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief  'i 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 
A glory  from  its  being  far  ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 

XXV. 

I know  that  this  was  life,  — the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we 
fared ; 

And  then,  as  now,  the  day  pre- 
pared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 

I loved  the  weight  I had  to  bear, 
Because  it  needed  help  of  Love : 

Nor  could  I weary,  heart  or  limb, 

When  mighty  Love  would  cleave 
in  twain 

The  lading  of  a single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 


XXVI. 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way ; 

I with  it ; for  I long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker 
Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power 
to  see 

Within  the  green  the  moulder’d 
tree, 

And  towers  fall’n  as  soon  as  built  — 

Oh,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 

In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more 
And  Love  the  indifference  to  be, 

Then  might  I find,  ere  yet  the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas, 
That  shadow  waiting  with  the 
keys, 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVII. 

I envy  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 
That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  : 

I envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 

His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter’d  by  the  sense  of  crime, 
To  whom  a conscience  never  wakes  ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted 
troth 

But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of 
sloth; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I hold  it  true,  what’er  befall ; 

I feel  it,  when  I sorrow  most ; 
’Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of 
Christ : 

The  moon  is  hid  ; the  night  is  still; 


IJV  MEMORIAM. 


489 


The  Christmas  hells  from  hill  to 
hill 

Answer  each  other  ir  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 
From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and 
moor,  , 

Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a door 

Were*  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  : 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  de- 
crease, 

Peace  and  goodwill,  goodwill  and 
peace, 

Peace  and  goodwill,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I almost  wish’d  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would 
break 

Before  I heard  those  bells  again  : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 

For  theycontroll’d  mewhenaboy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch’d 
with  joy, 

The  merry  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

XXIX. 

With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve ; 

Which  brings  no  more  a welcome 
guest 

To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the 
night 

With  shower’d  largess  of  delight 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest  ? 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly  boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use 
and  Wont, 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house ; 

Old  sisters  of  a day  gone  by, 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new  ; 
Why  should  they  miss  their 
yearly  due 

Before  their  time  ? They  too  will 
die. 


XXX 

With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas 
hearth ; 

A rainy  cloud  possess’d  the  earth. 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gambol’d,  making  vain  pre- 
tence 

Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused : the  winds  were  in  the 
beech : 

We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter 
land ; 

And  in  a circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang  ; 

We  sung,  tho’  every  eye  was  dim, 
A merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  : impetuously  we  sang : 

We  ceased  : a gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  us  : surely  rest  is  meet : 

“ They  rest,”  we  said,  “ their  sleep 
is  sweet,” 

And  silence  follow’d,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a higher  range; 

Once  more  we  sang : “ They  do 
not  die 

Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they 
change ; 

“ Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gather’d  power,  yet  the 
same, 

Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil.” 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn, 
Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from 
night : 

0 Father,  touch  the  east,  and 
light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was 
born. 


490 


IN  MEM  OKI  AM. 


XXXI. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary’s  house  re- 
turn’d, 

W as  this  demanded — if  he  yearn’d 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ? 

“ Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those 
four  days  ? ” 

There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbors  met, 
The  streets  were  fill’d  with  joyful 
sound, 

A solemn  gladness  even  crown’d 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 
The  rest  remaineth  unreveal’d  ; 
He  told  it  not;  or  something 
seal’d 

The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  ad- 
mits 

But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he 
sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is 
there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother’s 
face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  com- 
plete, 

She  bows,  she  bathes  the 
Saviour’s  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful 
prayers, 

Whose  loves  in  higher  love  en- 
dure ; 


What  souls  possess  themselves  so 
pure, 

Or  is  their  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 


XXXIII. 

0 thou  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reach’d  a 
purer  air, 

Whose  faith  has  centre  every- 
where, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy 
views ; 

Nor  thou  with  shadow’d  hint  con- 
fuse 

A life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro’  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good  : 
Oh,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 
To  which  she  links  a truth  divine ! 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a world  of  sin, 
And  ev’n  for  want  of  such  a type. 


XXXIV. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me 
this, 

That  life  shall  live  for  evermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 
And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is ; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 
Without  a conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I ? 
’Twere  hardly  worth  my  while  to 
choose 

Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A little  patience  ere  I die ; 

’Twere  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 
Like  birds  the  charming  serpent 
draws. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


491 


To  drop  head-foremost  in  the 
jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness  and  to  cease. 


XXXV. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could 
trust 

Should  murmur  from  the  narrow 
house, 

“ The  cheeks  drop  in ; the  body- 
bows  ; 

Man  dies  : nor  is  there  hope  in  dust : ” 

Might  I not  say  ? “ Yet  even  here, 
But  for  one  hour,  O Love,  I strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a thing  alive  : ” 

But  I should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  moanings  of  the  homeless  sea, 
The  sound  of  streams  that  swift 
or  slow 

Draw  down  Ionian  hills,  and 
sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a sigh, 
“The  sound  of  that  forgetful 
shore 

Will  change  my  sweetness  more 
and  more, 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I shall  die.” 

O me,  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case  1 If  Death  were 
seen 

At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not 
been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 

Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 
Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush’d 
the  grape, 

And  bask’d  and  batten’d  in  the  woods. 


xxxvi. 

Tho’  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 
Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin ; 


For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall 
fail, 

When  truth  embodied  in  a tale 
Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and 
wrought 

With  human  hands  the  creed  of 
creeds 

In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds. 
More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the 
sheaf, 

Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the 
grave, 

And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch 
the  wave 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 

XXXVII. 

Urania  speaks  with  darken’d  brow : 

“ Thou  pratest  here  where  thou 
art  least ; 

This  faith  has  many  a purer  priest, 
And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

“ Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 

On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 
About  the  ledges  of  the  hill.” 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek ; 
“ I am  not  worthy  ev’n  to  speak 
Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries  ; 

“For  I am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 

And  owning  but  a little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart, 
And  render  human  love  his  dues ; 

“ But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 
To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said), 

“ I murmur’d,  as  I came  along, 

Of  comfort  clasp’d  in  truth  re- 
veal’d ; 

And  loiter’d  in  the  master’s  field, 
And  darken’d  sanctities  with  song.” 


492 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XXXVIII. 

With  weary  steps  I loiter  on, 

Tho’  always  under  alter’d  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  and  liorizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 

The  herald  melodies  of  spring, 
But  in  the  songs  I love  to  sing 

A doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

If  any  care  for  what  is  here 

Survive  in  spirits  render’d  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I sing  of 
thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 

XXXIX. 

Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones, 

And  answering  now  my  random 
stroke 

With  fruitful  cloud  and  living 
smoke, 

Dark  yew,  that  graspest  at  the  stones 

And  dippest  toward  the  dreamless 
head, 

To  thee  too  comes  the  golden  hour 
When  flower  is  feeling  after 
flower ; 

But  Sorrow  — fixt  upon  the  dead, 

And  darkening  the  dark  graves  of 
men,  — 

What  whisper’d  from  her  lying 
lips  ? 

Thy  gloom  is  kindled  at  the  tips, 

And  passes  into  gloom  again. 

XL. 

Could  we  forget  the  widow’d  hour 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed 
away, 

As  on  a maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange- 
flower  ! 

When  crown’d  with  blessing  she  doth 
rise 

To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 


And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that 
come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother’s 
face, 

As  parting  with  a long- embrace 
She  enters  other  realms  of  love ; 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming  as  is  meet  and  fit 
A link  among  the  days,  to  knit 
The  generations  each  with  each ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  those  great  offices  that  suit 
The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I discern ! 

How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer’d  with  tidings  of  the 
bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return, 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have 
told, 

And  bring  her  babe,  and  make 
her  boast, 

Till  even  those  that  miss’d  her 
most 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  : 

But  thou  and  I have  shaken  hands, 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low  ; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I know, 
And  thine  in  undiscover’d  lands. 


XLI. 

Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher ; 

As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar- 
fire, 

As  flies  the  lighter  thro’  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  turn’d  to  something 
strange, 

And  I have  lost  the  links  that 
bound 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


493 


Thy  changes ; here  upon  the 
ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly  ! yet  that  this  could  be  — 
That  I could  wing  my  will  with 
might 

To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and 
light, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee. 

For  tho’  my  nature  rarely  yields 

To  that  vague  fear  implied  in 
death ; 

Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 
The  howlings  from  forgotten  fields  ; 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 
An  inner  trouble  I behold, 

A spectral  doubt  which  makes  me 
cold, 

That  I shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho’  following  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to 
thee, 

Thro’  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a life  behind. 

XLII. 

I vex  my  heart  with  fancies  dim : 

He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 
That  made  me  dream  I rank’d  with 
him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 

And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A lord  of  large  experience,  train 
To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit’s  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves  but  knows 
not,  reaps 

A truth  from  one  that  loves  and 
knows  7 

XLIII. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 

And  every  spirit’s  folded  bloom 


Thro’  all  its  intervital  gloom 
I\  uOme  long  trance  should  slumber  on ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 

Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last. 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 
Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower : 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man ; 

So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a figured  leaf  enrolls 
The  total  world  since  life  began ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in 
Time, 

And  at  the  spiritual  prime 
Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

XLIV. 

How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead  7 
For  here  the  man  is  more  and 
more ; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish’d,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding 
sense 

Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not 
whence) 

A little  flash,  a mystic  hint ; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean 
springs), 

May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly 
things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a dreamy  touch  should  fall, 

0 turn  thee  round,  resolve  the 
doubt ; 

My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 
In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLV. 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 

W hat  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 
Has  never  thought  that  “ this  is  I : ” 


494 


IN  MEMORIAAL 


But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 

And  learns  the  use  of  “ I,”  and 
“ me,” 

And  finds  “ I am  not  what  I see, 

And  other  than  the  things  I touch.” 

So  rounds  he  to  a separate  mind 

From  whence  clear  memory  may 
begin, 

As  thro’  the  frame  that  binds  him 
in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 

Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their 
due, 

Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 

XLVI. 

We  ranging  down  this  lower  track, 

The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and 
flower, 

Is  shadow’d  by  the  growing  hour, 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it : there  no  shade  can  last 

In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the 
tomb, 

But  clear  from  marge  to  marge 
shall  bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past ; 

A lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal’d  ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase ; 

Days  order’d  in  a wealthy  peace, 

And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

0 Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 

A bounded  field,  nor  stretching 
far ; 

Look  also,  Love,  a brooding  star, 

A rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 

XLVII. 

That  each,  who  seems  a separate 
whole, 

Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fus- 
ing all 

The  skirts  of  self  again,  should 
fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 


Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside ; 

And  I shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 
Enjoying  each  the  other’s  good: 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the 
mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  1 He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place,  to  clasp  and 
say, 

“Farewell!  We  lose  ourselves  in 
light.” 

XLVIII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here 
proposed, 

Then  these  were  such  as  men  might 
scorn : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove ; 
She  takes,  when  harsher  moods 
remit, 

What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may 
flit, 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love : 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with 
words, 

But  better  serves  a wholesome 
law, 

And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to 
draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords  : 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a larger  lay, 

But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that 
dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 

XLIX. 

From  art,  from  nature,  from  the 
schools, 

Let  random  influences  glance, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


495 


Like  light  in  many  ashiver’d  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy’s  tenderest  eddy 
wreathe, 

The  slightest  air  of  song  shall 
breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 
But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that 
make 

The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencil’d  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears 
Ay  me,  the  sorrow  deepens  down, 
Whose  muffled  motions  blindly 
drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 


Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the 
nerves  prick 

And  tingle  ; and  the  heart  is  sick, 
And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Is  rack’d  with  pangs  that  conquer 
trust ; 

And  Time,  a maniac  scattering 
dust, 

And  Life,  a Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 
And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting 
and  sing 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 
The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


LI. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 


Is  there  no  baseness  we  would 
hide  1 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  1 

Shall  lie  for  whose  applause  I strove, 
I had  such  reverence  for  his 
blame, 

See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden 
shame 

And  I be  lessen’d  in  his  love  ? 

I wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of 
faith  'i 

There  must  be  wisdom  with  great 
Death : 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro’  and  thro’. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling 
hours 

With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 

LII 

I cannot  love  thee  as  I ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  be- 
loved; 

My  words  are  only  words,  and 
moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

“ Yet  blame  not  thou  my  plaintive 
song,” 

The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied  ; 

“ Thou  canst  not  move  me  from 
thy  side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

“ What  keeps  a spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  ideal  which  he  bears  1 
What  record  ? not  the  sinless 
years 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian 
blue : 

“ So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 

That  life  is  dash’d  with  flecks  of 
sin. 

Abide  : thy  wealth  is  gather’d  in, 

When  Time  hath  sunder’d  shell  from 
pearl.” 


496 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LIII. 

How  many  a father  have  I seen, 

A sober  man,  among  his  boys, 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish 
noise, 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and 
green : 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 

That  had  the  wild  oat  not  been 
sown, 

The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  had 
grown 

The  grain  by  which  a man  may  live  ? 

Or,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 

For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth, 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a 
truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  ? 

Hold  thou  the  good : define  it  well : 
For  fearMivine  Philosophy 
Should  push  beyond  her  mark, 
and  be 

Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 

LIV. 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 

To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  de- 
stroy’d, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 
When  God  hath  made  the  pile  com- 
plete ; 

That  not  a worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell’d  in  a fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another’s  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 

I can  but  trust  that  good  shall 
fall 

At  last  — far  off  — at  last,  to  all, 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 


So  runs  my  dream ; but  what  am  I '*■ 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 
And  with  no  language  but  a cry. 

LV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 
The  likest  God  within  the  soul  'i 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil 
dreams  ? 

So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems. 
So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 
She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I falter  where  I firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of 
cares 

Upon  the  great  world’s  altar-stairs 
That  slope  thro’  darkness  up  to  God, 

I stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and 
grope, 

And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and 
call 

To  what  I feel  is  Lord  of  all, 
And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

LVI. 

“ So  careful  of  the  type  1 ” but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried 
stone 

She  cries,  “ A thousand  types  are 
gone : 

I care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

“ Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me  : 

I bring  to  life,  I bring  to  death  : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the 
breath : 

I know  no  more.”  And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem’d  so 
fair, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


497 


Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll’d  the  psalm  to  wintry 
skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless 
prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation’s  final  law  — 
Tho’  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and 
claw 

With  ravine,  shriek’d  against  his 
creed  — 

Who  loved,  wTho  suffer’d  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the 
Just, 

Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal’d  within  the  iron  hills  1 

No  more  1 A monster  then,  a dream, 
A discord.  Dragons  of  the 
prime, 

That  tare  each  other  in  their 
slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match’d  with  him. 

0 life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

0 for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and 
bless ! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 

Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

LVII. 

Peace ; come  away  : the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song: 
Peace ; come  awray : we  do  him 
wrong 

To  sing  so  wildly  : let  us  go. 

Come ; let  us  go : your  cheeks  are 
pale ; 

But  half  my  life  I leave  behind  : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly 
shrined ; 

But  I shall  pass ; my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look’d  with  human  eyes. 


I hear  it  now,  and  o’er  and  o’er, 
Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 
And  “ Ave,  Ave,  Ave,”  said, 
“Adieu,  adieu  ” for  evermore. 

LVIII. 

In  those  sad  words  I took  farewell : 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 
In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell ; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to 
day, 

Half-conscious  of  their  dying 
clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they 
shall  cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer’d : “ Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a fruitless 
tear  1 

Abide  a little  longer  here, 

And  thou  shalt  take  a nobler  leave.” 

LIX. 

O Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a wife, 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of 
life ; 

As  I confess  it  needs  must  be  ; 

O Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a bride, 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside, 
If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move, 

Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day  ; 
But  I’ll  have  leave  at  times  to 
play 

As  with  the  creature  of  my  love  ; 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 
With  so  much  hope  for  years  to 
come, 

That,  howsoe’er  I know  thee,  some 
Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were 
thine. 


498 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LX. 

He  past ; a soul  of  nobler  tone  r 

My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him 
yet, 

Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart 
is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere, 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot, 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not 
what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn  ; 

She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days, 
Moving  about  the  household 
ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was 
born. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go, 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws 
by: 

At  night  she  weeps,  “ How  vain 
am  I ! 

How  should  he  love  a thing  so  low  'i  ” 

LXI. 

If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 

Thy  ransom’d  reason  change 
replies 

With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time  ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 
How  dimly  character’d  and  slight, 
How  dwarf’d  a growth  of  cold  and 
night, 

How  blanch’d  with  darkness  must  I 
grow ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 
Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a 
man ; 

I loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor 
can 

The  soul  of  Shakspeare  love  thee  more. 


LXII. 

Tho’  if  an  eye  that’s  downward  cast 
Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench 
or  fail, ' 

Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale. 
And  fading  legend  of  the  past  ; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined. 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 
But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind  ; 

And  breathes  a novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies, 

Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 
Is  matter  for  a flying  smile. 

LXIII. 

Yet  pity  for  a horse  o’er-driven, 

And  love  in  which  my  hound  has 
part, 

Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my 
heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven ; 

And  I am  so  much  more  than  these, 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than 
I, 

And  yet  I spare  them  sympathy, 
And  I would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I weep, 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound, 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 
A higher  height,  a deeper  deep. 

LXIV. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath 
been, 

As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth’s  invidious  bar, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy 
chance, 

And  breasts  the  blows  of  circum- 
stance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star; 


IN  MEMORIA  M. 


499 


Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden 
keys, 

To  mould  a mighty  state’s  decrees, 
And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune’s  crowning 
slope 

The  pillar  of  a people’s  hope, 

The  centre  of  a world’s  desire ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a pensive  dream, 

When  all  his  active  powers  are 
still, 

A distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 

While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play’d  at  counsellors  and  kings, 
With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands ; 
“ Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ? ” 


LXV. 

Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt; 

I lull  a fancy  trouble-tost 
With  “ Love’s  too  precious  to  be 
lost, 

A little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt.” 

And  in  that  solace  can  I sing, 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a happy  thought, 
Self-balanced  on  a lightsome  wing : 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 

A part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee 
And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 


LXVI. 

You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased ; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 
Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 


The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost, 
Which  makes  a desert  in  the  mind, 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind, 
And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro’  the  land, 
Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is 
free, 

Who  takes  the  children  on  his 
knee, 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand  : 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his 
chair 

For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky, 
His  inner  day  can  never  die, 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 

LXVII. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west. 
There  comes  a glory  on  the  walls  : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 
As  slowly  steals  a silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 
And  o’er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight 
dies ; 

And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 
I sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray : 

And  then  I know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church  like  a 
ghost 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

LXYIII. 

When  in  the  down  I sink  my  head, 
Sleep,  Death’s  twin-brother,  times 
my  breath ; 

Sleep,  Death’s  twin-brother, know* 
not  Death, 

Nor  can  I dream  of  thee  as  dead : 

I walk  as  ere  I walk’d  forlorn, 

When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with 
dew, 


500 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 
Reveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 

But  what  is  this  1 I turn  about, 

I find  a trouble  in  thine  eye, 
Which  makes  me  sad  I know  not 
why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt: 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 
I wake,  and  I discern  the  truth ; 
It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 
That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 


LXIX. 

[ dream’d  there  would  be  Spring  no 
more, 

That  Nature’s  ancient  power  was 
lost : 

The  streets  were  black  with  smoke 
and  frost, 

They  chatter’d  trifles  at  the  door : 

I wander’d  from  the  noisy  town, 

I found  a wood  with  thorny 
boughs : 

I took  the  thorns  to  bind  my 
brows, 

I wore  them  like  a civic  crown  : 

I met  with  scoffs,  I met  with  scorns 

From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary 
hairs : 

They  call’d  me  in  the  public 
squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a crown  of  thorns ; 

They  call’d  me  fool,  they  call’d  me 
child  : 

I found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 

The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was 
bright ; 

He  look’d  upon  my  crown  and  smiled : 

He  reach’d  the  glory  of  a hand, 

That  seem’d  to  touch  it  into  leaf : 

The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of 
grief, 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 


LXX. 

I cannot  see  the  features  right, 

When  on  the  gloom  I strive  to 
paint 

The  face  I know;  the  hues  are 
faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night ; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons 
wrought, 

A gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 

A hand  that  points,  and  palled 
shapes 

* In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawn- 
ing doors, 

And  shoals  of  pucker’d  faces 
drive  ; 

Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 

And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores ; 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 

I hear  a wizard  music  roll, 

And  thro’  a lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 

LXXI. 

Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and 
trance 

And  madness,  thou  hast  forged 
at  last 

A night-long  Present  of  the  Past 

In  which  we  went  thro’  summer 
France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul  7 

Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly 
strong, 

Drug  down  the  blindfold  sense  of 
wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk’d 

Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of 
change, 

The  days  that  grow  to  something 
strange, 

I In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk’d 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


501 


Beside  the  river’s  wooded  reach, 

The  fortress,  and  the  mountain 
ridge, 

The  cataract  flashing  from  the 
bridge, 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


LXXII. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar 
white, 

And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming 
pane? 

Day,  when  my  crown’d  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom, 
Which  sicken’d  every  living 
bloom, 

And  blurr’d  the  splendor  of  the  sun ; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  quick  tears  that  make 
the  rose 

Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower ; 

Who  might’st  have  heaved  a windless 
. flame 

Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering, 
play’d 

A chequer-work  of  beam  and 
shade 

Along  tire  hills,  yet  look’d  the  same. 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now ; 

Day,  mark’d  as  with  some  hideous 
crime, 

When  the  dark  hand  struck  down 
thro’  time, 

And  cancell’d  nature’s  best : but  thou, 

Lift  as  thou  may’st  thy  burthen’d 
brows 

Thro’  clouds  that  drench  the 
morning  star, 

And  whirl  the  ungarner’d  sheaf 
afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs, 


And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous 
day; 

Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless 
gray, 

And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the 
ground. 

LXXIII. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do. 

So  little  done,  such  things  to  be. 
How  know  I what  had  need  of 
thee, 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true? 

The  fame  is  quench’d  that  I foresaw, 
The  head  hath  miss’d  an  earthly 
wreatli : 

I curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death ; 
For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass ; the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 
In  endless  age  ? It  rests  with  God. 

O hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul 
exults, 

And  self-infolds  the  large  results 
Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a 
name. 

LXXIV. 

As  sometimes  in  a dead  man’s  face, 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and 
more, 

A likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 
Comes  out — to  some  one  of  his  race  : 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 

I see  thee  what  thou  art,  and 
know 

Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 
Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I can  see, 

And  what  I see  I leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has 
made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


502 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LXXV . 

I leave  thy  praises  unexpress’d 

In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 
I leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess’d ; 

What  practice  liowsoe’er  expert 

In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things, 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that 
sings, 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  ? 

I care  not  in  these  fading  days 

To  raise  a cry  that  lasts  not  long, 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze 
of  song 

To  stir  a little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish’d  in  the  green, 
And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the 
sun, 

The  world  which  credits  what  is 
done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame ; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human 
view, 

Whate’er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 
Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 

LXXVI. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of 
space 

Are  sharpen’d  to  a needle’s  end ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight ; lighten  thro’ 
The  secular  abyss  to  come, 

And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 
Before  the  mouldering  of  a yew ; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last, 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 
Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy 
bowers 

With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are 
vain; 


And  what  are  they  when  these 
remain 

The  ruin’d  shells  of  hollow  towers  ? 


LXXVII. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him,  who  turns  a musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives, 
that  lie 

Foreshorten’d  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a book,  may  line  a box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a maiden’s 
locks ; 

Or  when  a thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A man  upon  a stall  may  find, 

And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that 
tells 

A grief,  then  changed  to  some- 
thing else, 

Sung  by  a long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ? My  darken’d  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same ; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than 
fame, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 


LXXVIII. 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas 
hearth ; 

The  silent  snow  possess’d  the 
earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve  : 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Again  our  ancient  games  had 
place, 

The  mimic  picture’s  breathing 
grace, 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman 
blind. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


503 


Who  show’d  a token  of  distress  ? 

No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 

0 sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 
O grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  ? 

O last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No  — mixt  with  all  this  mystic 
frame, 

Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 
But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 

LXXIX. 

“ More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me,” — 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 

1 know  thee  of  what  force  thou 
art 

To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I are  one  in  kind, 

As  moulded  like  in  Nature’s  mint; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did 
print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl’d 
Thro’  all  his  eddying  coves  ; the 
same 

All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight 
came 

In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer’d  vows, 
One  lesson  from  one  book  we 
learn’d, 

Ere  childhood’s  flaxen  ringlet 
turn’d 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 
But  he  was  rich  where  I was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  want  the  more 
As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 


LXXX. 

If  any  vague  desire  should  rise, 

That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his 
side, 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes  ; 


Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had 
wrought, 

A grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought, 

But  stay’d  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 

I make  a picture  in  the  brain  ; 

I hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks ; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks 

But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free ; 

And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and 
save, 

Unused  example  from  the  grave 

Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 

LXXXI. 

Could  I have  said  while  he  was  here, 

“My  love  shall  now  no  further 
range ; 

There  cannot  come  a mellower 
change, 

For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear.” 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store  : 

What  end  is  here  to  my  com- 
plaint | 

This  haunting  whisper  makes  me 
faint, 

“ More  years  had  made  me  love  thee 
more.” 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 

“ My  sudden  frost  was  sudden 
gain, 

And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain, 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-lieat.” 

LXXXII. 

I wage  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and 
face  ; 

No  lower  life  that  earth’s  embrace 

May  breed  with  him,  can  fright  my 
faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit 
walks ; 


504 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  these  are  but  the  shatter’d 
stalks, 

Or  ruin’d  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 

I know  transplanted  human  worth 
Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my 
heart ; 

He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 
We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 

LXXXIII. 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 

O sweet  new-year  delaying  long ; 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature 
wrong ; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded 
noons, 

Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper 
place  1 

Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 
Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire. 
The  little  speedwell’s  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash’d  with  fiery  dew, 
Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0 thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a frozen  bud 
And  flood  a fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIV. 

When  I contemplate  all  alone 

The  life  that  had  been  thine  below, 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the 
glow 

To  which  thy  crescent  would  have 
grown  ; 

1 see  thee  sitting  crown’d  with  good, 

A central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 
In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp 
and  kiss, 

On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood ; 


Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on, 
When  thou  should’st  link  thy  life 
with  one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  “Uncle”  on  my  knee: 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange  flower, 
Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 

To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them 
mine. 

I see  their  unborn  faces  shine 
Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I see  myself  an  honor’d  guest, 

Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk, 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest ; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 
Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a morn  as  fair; 

And  all  the  train  of  bounteous 
hours 

Conduct  by  paths  of  growing 
powers, 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair ; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe, 

Her  lavish  mission  richly 
wrought, 

Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 
Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off  the 
globe ; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee, 
As  link’d  with  thine  in  love  and 
fate, 

And,  hovering  o’er  the  dolorous 
strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal, 

And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining 
hand, 

And  take  us  as  a single  soul. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


505 


What  reed  was  that  on  which  I leant  1 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore 
w'ake 

The  old  bitterness  again,  and 
break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content. 

LXXXV. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and 
pall, 

I felt  it,  when  I sorrow’d  most, 
’Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 

O true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common 
grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I lead ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm’d  of  sorrow,  or  sustain’d ; 
And  whether  love  for  him  have 
drain’d 

My  capabilities  of  love  ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A faithful  answer  from  the 
breast, 

Thro’  light  reproaches,  half  ex- 
prest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message 
falls, 

That  in  Vienna’s  fatal  walls 

God’s  finger  touch’d  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal 
state, 

In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate, 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome 
there ; 

And  led  him  thro’  the  blissful  climes, 
And  show’d  him  in  the  fountain 
fresh 

All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of 
flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 


But  I remain’d,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were 
little  worth, 

To  wander  on  a darken’d  earth, 
Where  all  things  round  me  breathed 
of  him. 

0 friendship,  equal-poised  control, 

O heart,  with  kindliest  motion 
warm, 

0 sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0 solemn  ghost,  0 crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
Plow  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 
By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1 felt  and  feel,  tho’  left  alone, 

His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine ; 

A life  that  all  the  Muses  deck’d 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might 
express 

All-comprehensive  tenderness, 
All-subtilizing  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 
And  in  my  grief  a strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual 
strife. 

Diffused  the  shock  tliro’  all  my 
life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  I met , 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 
The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

1 woo  your  love  : I count  it  crime 

To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A friendship  as  had  master’d  Time ; 


S06 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 

The  all-assuming  months  and 
years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 
And  Spring  that  swells  the  nar- 
row brooks, 

And  Autumn,  with  a noise  of 
rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or 
gloom, 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A part  of  stillness,  yearns  to 
speak : 

“Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and 
seek 

A friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

“ I watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore ; 
Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach ; 
But  in  dear  words  of  human 
speech 

We  two  communicate  no  more.” 

And  I,  “ Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  1 
How  is  it  1 Canst  thou  feel  for 
me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  % ” 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall ; 

“ ’Tis  hard  for  thee  to  fathom 
this ; 

I triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all.” 

So  hold  I commerce  with  the  dead ; 
Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would 
say; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols 
play 

And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 


Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I shall 
prove 

A meeting  somewhere,  love  with 
love, 

I crave  your  pardon,  O my  friend ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 

I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I could  not,  if  I would,  transfer 
The  whole  I felt  for  him  to  you. 

Eor  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  1 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal 
powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace. 
But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more. 

My  heart,  tho’  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 
That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I bring, 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear. 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 
As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXVI. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous 
gloom 

Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 
And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro’  all  the  dewy-tassell’d  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned 
flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy 
breath 

Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt 
and  Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 


IN  MEM  OR /AM 


507 


From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 

On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A hundred  spirits  whisper  “Peace.” 

LXXXVII. 

I past  beside  the  reverend  walls 

In  which  of  old  1 wore  the  gown; 
I roved  at  random  thro’  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs 
make, 

And  thunder-music, rolling,  shake 

The  prophet  blazon’d  on  the  ’panes ; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant 
shout, 

The  measured  pulse  of  racing 
oars 

Among  the  willows ; paced  the 
shores 

And  many  a bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same  ; and 
last 

Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door  * 

I linger’d  ; all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands, 
and  boys 

That  crash’d  the  glass  and  beat  the 
floor ; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and 
art, 

And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the 
string ; 

And  one  would  pierce  an  outer 
ring, 

Amd  one  an  inner,  here  and  there ; 


And  last  the  master-bowman,  he, 

Would  cleave  the  mark.  A wil- 
ling ear 

We  lent  him.  Who,  but  hung  to 
hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and 
grace 

And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 

To  those  conclusions  when  we 
saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 

In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise  ; 

And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVIII 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 

Rings  Eden  thro’  the  budded 
quicks, 

0 tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 

O tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  r fierce  extremes  em- 
ploy 

Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 

And  in  the  midmost  heart  of 
grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a secret  joy ; 

And  I — my  harp  would  prelude 
woe  — 

1 cannot  all  command  the  strings ; 

The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

LXXXIX. 

Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the 
floor 

Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and 
bright ; 

And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth 
and  height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore  ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 

My  Arthur  found  your  shadows 
fair, 


508 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 
The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 
They  pleased  him,  fresh  from 
brawling  courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

0 joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 

Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 

To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 
The  landscape  winking  thro’  the  heat : 

O sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning 
dew, 

The  gust  that  round  the  garden 
flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing 
pears ! 

O bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 

About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 
The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn  : 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 

A guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 

Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and 
flung 

A ballad  to  the  brightening  moon : 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray, 
And  break  the  lifelong  summer 
day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods  ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to 
theme, 

Discuss’d  the  books  to  love  or 
hate, 

Or  touch’d  the  changes  of  the 
state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream  , 

But  if  I praised  the  busy  town, 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  “ ground  in  yonder  social 
mill 

We  rub  each  other’s  angles  down, 


“ And  merge  ” he  said  “ in  form  and 
gloss 

The  picturesque  of  man  and 
man.” 

We  talk’d:  the  stream  beneath 
us  ran, 

The  wine-flask  lying  couch’d  in  moss, 

Or  cool’d  within  the  glooming  wave  ; 

And  last,  returning  from  afar, 

Before  the  crimson-circled  star 

Had  fall’n  into  her  father’s  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers , 

We  heard  behind  the  woodbine 
veil 

The  milk  that  bubbled  in  tfle  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honied  hours. 

xc. 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 

Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate 
spring 

Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first 
could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind  ; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying 
eyes 

Were  closed  with  wail,  resume 
their  life, 

They  would  but  find  in  child  and 
wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise  : 

’Twas  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with 
wine, 

To  pledge  them  with  a kindly 
tear, 

To  talk  them  o’er,  to  wish  them 
here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine ; 

But  if  they  came  who  past  away, 

Behold  their  brides  in  other 
hands ; 

The  hard  heir  strides  about  their 
lands, 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a day. 

Yea,  tho’  their  sons  were  none  of 
these. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


509 


Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would 
make 

Confusion  worse  than  death,  and 
shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me : 

Whatever  change  the  years  have 
wrought, 

I find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 

xci. 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 

And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted 
thrush ; 

Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I 
know 

Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy 
peers ; 

The  hope  of  unaccomplish’d  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer’s  hourly-mellowing 
change 

May  breathe,  with  many  roses 
sweet, 

Upon  the  thousand  waves  of 
wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange ; 

Come : not  in  watches  of  the  night, 

But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth 
warm, 

Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after 
form, 

And  like  a finer  light  in  light, 
xcn. 

If  any  vision  should  reveal 

Thy  likeness,  I might  count  it 
vain 

As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain ; 

Yea,  tho’  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 

Together  in  the  days  behind, 

I might  but  say,  I hear  a wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 


Yea,  tho’  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A fact  within  the  coming  year ; 
And  tho’  the  months,  revolving 
near, 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning 
true, 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies, 
But  spiritual  presentiments, 

And  such  refraction  of  events 
As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

xcm. 

I shall  not  see  thee.  Dare  I say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native 
land 

Where  first  he  walk’d  when  claspt  in 
clay  ? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 

But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may 
come 

Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is 
numb ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
0,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 
Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter;  hear 
The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to 
name ; 

That  in  this  blindness  of  the 
frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near, 
xciv. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, 
With  what  divine  affections  bold 
Should  be  the  man  whose  thought 
would  hold 

An  hour’s  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 

The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst 
say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 


510 


IN  MEMORIA  M. 


They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair, 

The  memory  like  a cloudless  air, 
The  conscience  as  a sea  at  rest : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 

And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 
And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


xcv. 

By  night  we  linger’d  on  the  lawn, 

For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry; 
And  genial  warmth ; and  o’er  the 
sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 
Unwavering:  not  a cricket  chirr’d: 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn  : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 
And  wheel’d  or  lit  the  filmy 
shapes 

That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine 
capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes ; 

“While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that 
peal’d 

From  knoll  to  knoll,  where, 
couch’d  at  ease, 

The  white  kine  glimmer’d,  and 
the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 
Withdrew  themselves  from  me 
and  night, 

And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I was  all  alone, 

A hunger  seized  my  heart ; I read 
Of  that  glad  year  which  once  had 
been, 

In  those  fall’ll  leaves  which  kept 
their  green, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead : 


And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
The  silent-speaking  words,  and 
strange 

Was  love’s  dumb  cry  defying 
change 

To  test  his  worth ; and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
On  doubts  that  drive  the  cowar  \ 
back, 

And  keen  thro’  wordy  snares  to 
track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 
The  dead  man  touch’d  me  from 
the  past, 

And  all  at  once  it  seem’d  at  last 

The  living  soul  was  flash’d  on  mine, 

And  mine  in  this  was  wound,  and 
whirl’d 

About  empyreal  heights  of 
thought, 

And  came  on  that  which  is,  and 
caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

Ionian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time  — the  shocks 
of  Chance  — 

The  blows  of  Death.  At  length 
my  trance 

Was  eancell’d,  stricken  thro’  with 
doubt. 

Vague  words  ! but  ah,  how  hard  to 
frame 

In  matter-moulded  forms  of 
speech, 

Or  ev’n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro’  memory  that  which  I became  : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal’d 
The  knolls  once  more  where, 
couch’d  at  ease, 

The  white  kine  glimmer’d,  and 
the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field : 

And  suck’d  from  out  the  distant  gloom 
A breeze  began  to  tremble  o’er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 


IN  MEM  OR  I AM. 


511 


And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 

Rock’d  the  full-foliaged  elms, 
and  swung 

The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said 

“ The  dawn,  the  dawn,”  and  died 
away ; 

And  East  and  West,  without  a 
breath, 

Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life 
and  death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 


xcvi. 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light- 
blue  eyes 

Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 
You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I know  not : one  indeed  I knew 

In  many  a subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch’d  a jarring  lyre  at  first, 
But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There  lives  more  faith  in  honest 
doubt, 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gather’d 
strength, 

He  would  not  make  his  judgment 
blind. 

He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 
And  laid  them  : thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a stronger  faith  his  own ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the 
night, 

Which  makes  the  darkness  and 
the  light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 

As  over  Sinai’s  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of 
gold, 

Altho’  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


xcvi  i. 

My  love  has  talk’d  with  rocks  and 
trees  ; 

He  finds  on  misty  mountain- 
ground 

His  own  vast  shadow  glory- 
crown’d ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a married  life  — 

I look’d  on  these  and  thought  of 
thee 

In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a wife. 

These  two  — they  dwelt  with  eye  on 
eye, 

Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in 
tune, 

Their  meetings  made  December 
June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away ; 

The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate’er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho’  rapt  in  matters  dark  and 
deep 

lie  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

He  looks  so  cold  : she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 

A wither’d  violet  is  her  bliss  : 

She  knows  not  what  his  great- 
ness is, 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows  ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the 
house, 

And  he,  he  knows  a thousand  things 


512 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move, 

She  darkly  feels  him  great  and 
wise, 

She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful 
eyes,  . 

“ I cannot  understand  : I love.” 
XCVIII. 

You  leave  us : you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I sail’d  below, 
When  I was  there  with  him  ; and 
go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath. 
That  City.  All  her  splendor 
seems 

No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that 
gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 
Enwind  her  isles,  unmark’d  of 
me : 

I have  not  seen,  I will  not  see 

Vienna ; rather  dream  that  there, 

A treble  darkness,  Evil  haunts 

The  birth,  the  bridal ; friend  from 
friend 

Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 

Above  more  graves,  a thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 
By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sad- 
ness flings 

Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of 
kings  : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and 
fro 

The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves ; nor  more  content, 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and 
loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and 
tent, 


Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and 
breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 

Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 

xcix. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the 
herds, 

Day,  when  I lost  the  flower  of  men ; 

Who  tremblest  thro’  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll’n  brook  that  bubbles 
fast 

By  meadows  breathing  of  the 
past, 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead  ; 

Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 
A song  that  slights  the  coming 
care, 

And  Autumn  laying  here  and 
there 

A fiery  finger  on  the  leaves  ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth, 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth, 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

0 wheresoever  those  may  be, 

Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred 
souls ; 

They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with 
me. 

c. 

1 climb  the  hill : from  end  to  end 

Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I find  no  place  that  does  not 
breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 

Or  low  morass  and  whispering 
reed, 

Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to 
mead, 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold ; 


IN  MEM  OR/AM. 


513 


Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 

That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trench’d  along  the 
hill 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw ; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock ; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right  thro’  meadowy 
curves, 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a kindlier  day  ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 
I think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 

ci. 

Unwatch’d,  the  garden  bough  shall 
sway, 

The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather 
brown, 

This  maple  burn  itself  away ; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 
Bay  round  with  flames  her  disk 
of  seed, 

And  many  a rose-carnation  feed 
With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a sandy  bar, 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the 
plain, 

At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  wain 
Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and 
crake ; 

Or  into  silver  arrows  break 
The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 
A fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape 
grow 

Familiar  to  the  stranger’s  child  ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the 
glades , 


And  year  by  year  our  memory 
fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills, 
cn. 

We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 

Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the 
sky; 

The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest 
cry, 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 

As  down  the  garden-walks  I 
move, 

Two  spirits  of  a diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

| One  whispers,  “ Here  thy  boyhood 
sung 

Long  since  its  matin  song,  and 
heard 

The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung.” 

The  other  answers,  “ Yea,  but  here 

Thy  feet  have  stray’d  in  after 
hours 

With  thy  lost  friend  among  the 
bowers, 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly 
dear.” 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 

And  each  prefers  his  separate 
claim, 

Poor  rivals  in  a losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  Avay. 

I turn  to  go : my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and 
farms ; 

They  mix  in  one  another’s  arms 

To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 

cm. 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went 

From  out  the  doors  where  I was 
bred, 

I dream’d  a vision  of  the  dead, 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content. 


514 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Methought  I dwelt  within  a hall, 

And  maidens  with  me : distant 
hills 

From  hidden  summits  fed  with 
rills 

A river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 

They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and 
good 

And  graceful.  In  the  centre 
stood 

A statue  veil’d,  to  which  they  sang ; 

And  which,  tlio’  veil’d,  was  known  to 
me, 

The  shape  of  him  I loved,  and 
love 

For  ever : then  flew  in  a dove 

And  brought  a summons  from  the 
sea : 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I must  go 

They  wept  and  wail’d,  but  led  the 
way 

To  where  a little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood  below ; 

And  on  by  many  a level  mead. 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made 
the  banks, 

We  glided  winding  under  ranks 

Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed  ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore 

And  roll’d  the  floods  in  grander 
space, 

The  maidens  gather’d  strength 
and  grace 

And  presence,  lordlier  than  before  ; 

And  I myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch’d  them,  wax’d  in  every 
»imb  ; 

I felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 

The  pulses  of  a Titan’s  heart ; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war, 

And  one  would  chant  the  history 

Of  that  great  race,  which  is  to 
be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a star ; 


Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 

Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we 
saw 

A great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck, 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.  Up  the  side  I went, 
And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck  : 

Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail’d  their  lot ; I did  them 
wrong : 

“We  served  thee  here,”  they  said, 
“ so  long, 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  'i  ” 

So  rapt  I was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  “ Enter  likewise  ye 
And  go  with  us : ” they  enter’d  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud, 
We  steer’d  her  toward  a crimson 
cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep, 
civ. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of 
Christ; 

The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 
A single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A single  peal  of  bells  below, 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A single  murmur  in  the  breast, 
That  these  are  not  the  bells  I know. 

Like  strangers’ voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a memory 
strays, 

Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other 
days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow’d  ground, 
cv. 

To-night  ungather’d  let  us  leave 

This  laurel,  let  this  holly  stand : 
We  live  within  the  stranger’s  land, 
And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eve 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


515 


Our  father’s  dust  is  left  alone 

And  silent  under  other  snows  : 
There  in  due  time  the  woodbine 
blows, 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 
The  genial  hour  with  mask  and 
mime ; 

For  change  of  place,  like  growth 
of  time, 

Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 

By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly 
proved, 

A little  spare  the  night  I loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 

Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm ; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient 
form 

Thro’  which  the  spirit  breathes  no 
more  ? 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast ; 
Nor  harp  be  touch’d,  nor  flute  be 
blown ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 

What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 
Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the 
seed ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and 
lead 

The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good, 
cvi. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the 
snow : 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 


Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no 
more ; 

Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and 
poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 
With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the 
times; 

Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful 
rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and 
blood, 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of 
gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier 
hand ; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

CVII. 

It  is  the  day  when  he  was  born, 

A bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a purple-frosty  bank 
Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.  Fiercely 
flies 

The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and 
ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen’d  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 


516 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Above  the  wood  which  grides  and 
clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 
That  breaks  the  coast.  But  fetch 
the  wine, 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass ; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie, 
To  make  a solid  core  of  heat ; 

Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 
Of  all  things  ev’n  as  he  were  by  ; 

We  keep  the  day.  With  festal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him,  whate’er  he  be, 
And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 

cvm. 

I will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 
And,  lest  I stiffen  into  stone, 

I will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Nor  feed  with  sighs  a passing  wind : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho’  with 
might 

To  scale  the  heaven’s  highest 
height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 

What  find  I in  the  highest  place, 

But  mine  own  phantom  chanting 
hymns  ? 

And  on  the  depths  of  death  there 
swims 

The  reflex  of  a human  face. 

I’ll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
’Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us 
wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee, 
cix. 

Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 

From  household  fountains  never 
dry ; 

The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 
That  saw  thro’  all  the  Muses’  walk ; 


Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of 
man  ; 

Impassion’d  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course  ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
But  touch’d  with  no  ascetic 
gloom ; 

And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 
Thro’  all  the  years  of  April  blood ; 

A love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 

Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England ; not  the  schoolboy 
heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a sort,  the  child  would 
twine 

A trustful  hand,  unask’d,  in  thine, 
And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine 
eyes 

Have  look’d  on : if  they  look’d 
in  vain, 

My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 
Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

cx. 

Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years : 
The  feeble  soul,  a haunt  of  fears, 
Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-liearted  hung, 

The  proud  was  half  disarm’d  of 
pride, 

Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 
To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by, 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen 
fool 

Was  soften’d,  and  he  knew  not  why; 

While  I,  thy  nearest,  sat  apart, 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine: 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


517 


And  loved  them  more,  that  they 
were  thine, 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Nor  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not 
tire, 

And,  born  of  love,  the  vague 
desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 

CXI. 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 

Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro’  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a golden  ball, 
By  blood  a king,  at  heart  a clown  ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe’er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion’s 
sake, 

Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 
At  seasons  thro’  the  gilded  pale  : 

For  who  can  always  act  1 but  he, 

To  whom  a thousand  memories 
call, 

Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 
The  gentleness  he  seem’d  to  be, 

Best  seem’d  the  thing  he  was,  and 
join’d 

Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 
And  native  growth  of  noble  mind ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 

Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 

Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 
Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light ; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 
And  soil’d  with  all  ignoble  use. 

CXII. 

High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 
That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate 
eyes 

On  glorious  insufficiencies, 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 


But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I seem  to  cast  a careless  eye 
On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou  1 some  novel 
power 

Sprang  up  for  ever  at  a touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too 
much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  brought, 

And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest 
made, 

And  world-widefluctuation  sway’d 
In  vassal  tides  that  follow’d  thought. 

CXIII. 

’Tis  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 
Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps 
with  thee 

Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 
But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise ; 

For  can  I doubt,  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil  — 

I doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have 
been  : 

A life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has 
birth, 

A lever  to  uplift  the  earth 
And  roll  it  in  another  course, 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and 
go, 

With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  and  with 
cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 

cxiv. 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ? Whc 
shall  rail 


518 


IN  MEM ORIAM. 


Against  lier  beauty  ? May  she 
mix 

With  men  and  prosper ! Who 
shall  fix 

Her  pillars  ? Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a fire : 

She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance. 
Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a child,  and  vain  — 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and 
faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons  ? fiery-hot  to  burst 

All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.  Let  her  know  her 
place ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain ; and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 
With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 

But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
O,  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 
So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and 
hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

cxv. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of 
quick 

About  the  flowering  squares,  and 
thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a lovelier  hue, 
And  drown’d  in  yonder  living  blue 
The  lark  becomes  a sightless  song. 


Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the 
vale, 

And  milkier  every  milky  sail 
On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change 
their  sky 

To  build  and  brood ; that  live  their 
lives 

From  land  to  land  ; and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too ; and  my  re- 
gret 

Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

cxvi. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 

That  keenlier  in  sweet  April 
wakes, 

And  meets  the  year,  and  gives 
and  takes 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all : the  songs,  the  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust, 
Cry  thro’  the  sense  to  hearten 
trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret : the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I muse  alone ; 
And  that  dear  voice,  I once  have 
known, 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune 
dead ; 

Less  yearning  for  the  friendship 
fled, 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 

CXVII. 

O days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place. 
A little  while  from  his  embrace, 
For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  : 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


519 


That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 

Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 
Delight  a hundredfold  accrue, 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs, 
And  every  span  of  shade  that 
steals, 

And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels. 
And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


CXVIII. 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and 
truth, 

As  dying  Nature’s  earth  and  lime ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.  They  say, 
The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random 
forms, 

The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic 
storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man  ; 

Who  throve  and  branch’d  from  clime 
to  clime, 

The  herald  of  a higher  race, 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 
If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more ; 
Or,  crown’d  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course, 
and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning 
fears, 

And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 
And  batter’d  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.  Arise  and  fly 

The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual 
feast; 


Move  upward,  working  out  the 
beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

CXIX. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to 
beat 

So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I come  once  more;  the  city  sleeps; 

I smell  the  meadow  in  the  street ; 

I hear  a chirp  of  birds  ; I see 

Betwixt  the  'black  fronts  long- 
withdrawn 

A light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 

And  think  of  early  days  and  thee. 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland. 
And  bright  the  friendship  of 
thine  eye ; 

And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce 
a sigh 

I take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 


cxx. 

I trust  I have  not  wasted  breath  : 

I think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries ; not  in  vain, 
Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I fought  with 
Death  ; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay  : 

Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and 
then 

What  matters  Science  unto  men, 
At  least  to  me  ? I would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood 
shape 

His  action  like  the  greater  ape, 
But  I was  born  to  other  things. 


cxxi. 

Sad  Hesper  o’er  the  buried  sun 

And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him, 
Thou  watehest  all  things  ever 
dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a glory  done : 


520 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


The  team  is  loosen’d  from  the  wain, 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 
And  life  is  darken’d  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 
By  thee  the  world’s  great  work  is 
heard 

Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird ; 
Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light  : 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream, 
And  voices  hail  it  from  the 
brink ; 

Thou  hear’st  the  village  hammer 
clink, 

And  see’st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my 
past, 

Thy  place  is  changed ; thou  art  the 
same. 

cxxn. 

Oh,  wast  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
While  I rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And  yearn’d  to  burst  the  folded 
gloom, 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 

The  strong  imagination  roll 
A sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 
In  all  her  motion  one  with  law  ; 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now, 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 
Till  all  my  blood,  a fuller  wave, 

Be  quicken’d  with  a livelier  breath, 
And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death ; 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a bow, 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply 
glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a rose. 


cxxm. 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the 
tree. 

0 earth,  what  changes  hast  thou 

seen ! 

There  where  the  long  street  roars, 
hath  been 

The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing 
stands ; 

They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves 
and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold 
it  true  ; 

Fortho’  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 

I cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

cxxiv. 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless  ; 

Our  dearest  faith;  our  ghastliest 
doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  All ; within,  with- 
out ; 

The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we 
guess ; 

I found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 

Or  eagle’s  wing,  or  insect’s  eye ; 

Nor  thro’  the  questions  men  may 
try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun : 

If  e’er  when  faith  had  fall’n  asleep, 

1 heard  a voice  “ believe  no  more  ” 

And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep ; 

A warmth  within  the  breast  would 
melt 

The  freezing  reason’s  colder  part, 

And  like  a man  in  wrath  the 
heart 

Stood  up  and  answer’d  “ I have  felt.” 

No,  like  a child  in  doubt  and  fear  : 

But  that  blind  clamor  made  me 
wise ; 


IN  MEM ORIAM. 


521 


Then  was  I as  a child  that  cries, 
But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near ; 

And  what  I am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the 
hands 

That  reach  thro’  nature,  moulding 
men. 

cxxv. 

Whatever  I have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would 
give, 

Yea,  tho’  there  often  seem’d  to 
live 

A contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth  ; 
She  did  but  look  through  dimmer 
eyes  ; 

Or  Love  but  play’d  with  gracious 
lies, 

Because  he  felt  so  fix’d  in  truth  : 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 

He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song ; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and 
strong 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 
A thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

CXXVI. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 
Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho’  as  yet  I keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and 
sleep 

Encompass’d  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to 
place, 


And  whispers  to  the  worlds  d 
space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well, 
cxxvn. 

And  all  is  well,  tho’  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder’d  in  the  night  of  fear  ; 
W ell  roars  the  storm  to  those  that 
hear 

A deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev’n  tho’  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 
Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags  : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining 
crags ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood  ; 
The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the 
sky, 

And  the  great  iEon  sinks  in  blood, 

And  compass’d  by  the  fires  of  Hell ; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy 
star, 

O’erlook’st  the  tumult  from  afar, 
And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 

cxxvin. 

The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  he  met  with 
Death, 

Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 
That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 

Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 
And  throned  races  may  degrade  ; 
Yet  0 ye  mysteries  of  good, 

Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and 
Fear, 

If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like 
new ; 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 


522 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


To  draw,  to  sheathe  a useless  sword, 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious 
lies, 

To  cleave  a creed  in  sects  and 
cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a word, 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk, 
To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 
And  tuft  with  grass  a feudal  tower ; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.  I see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 
Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  end. 

CXXIX. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 

So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal ; 

0 loved  the  most,  when  most  I feel 
There  is  a lower  and  a higher ; 

Known  and  unknown  ; human,  divine  ; 
Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and 
eye ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst 
not  die, 

Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine ; 

Strange  friend,  past, present,  and  to  be; 
Loved  deeplier,  darklier  under- 
stood ; 

Behold,  I dream  a dream  of  good, 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

cxxx. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 

1 hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ? I cannot  guess  ; 
But  tho’  I seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 
I do  not  therefore  love  thee  less  : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before  ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 
Tho’  mix’d  with  God  and  Nature 
thou, 

I seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 


Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 

I have  thee  still,  and  I rejoice  ; 

I prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice ; 
I shall  not  lose  thee  tho’  I die. 

CXXXI. 

O living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer 
shock, 

Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro’  our  deeds  and  make  them 
pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 

A cry  above  the  conquer’d  years 
To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be 
proved 

Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 
And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


O true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 
Demand  not  thou  a marriage  lay  ; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 

Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I felt  so  much  of  bliss 

Since  first  he  told  me  that  he 
loved 

A daughter  of  our  house;  nor 
proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a day  like  this ; 

Tho’  I since  then  have  number’d  o’er 
Some  thrice  three  years:  they  went 
and  came, 

Remade  the  blood  and  changed 
the  fame, 

And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more  ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 

In  dying  songs  a dead  regret, 

But  like  a statue  solid-set, 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are 
flown, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


523 


For  I myself  with  these  have 
grown 

To  something  greater  than  before ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I 
made 

As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a wife  ere 
noon  ? 

She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes 
And  then  on  thee ; they  meet  thy 
look 

And  brighten  like  the  star  that 
shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  tnee  she 
grows 

For  ever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy  ; f uli  of  power ; 
As  gentle;  liberal-minded,  great. 
Consistent ; wearing  all  that 
weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a flower. 

But  now  set  out : the  noon  is  near, 
And  I must  give  away  the  bride ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee 
beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear. 

For  I that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 
That  watch’d  her  on  her  nurse’s 
arm, 

That  shielded  all  her  life  from 
harm 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a wife, 

Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her 
head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 


Breathed  in  her  ear.  The  ring  is  on, 
The  “ wilt  thou  ” answer’d,  and 
again 

The  “ wilt  thou  ” ask’d,  till  out  of 
twain 

Her  sweet  “ I will  ” has  made  you  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be 
read, 

Mute  symbols  of  a joyful  morn, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn ; 

The  names  are  sign’d,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering 
breeze ; 

The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the 
trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.  Many  a merry  face 
Salutes  them  — maidens  of  the 
place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

3 happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I 
gave. 

They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass 
the  grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 

For  them  the  light  of  life  in- 
creased, 

Who  stay  to  share  the  morning 
feast, 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a whiter  sun ; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not 
shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 

And  hearts  are  warm’d  and  faces 
bloom, 

As  drinking  health  to  bride  and 
groom 

We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 


524 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a stiller  guest, 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the 
rest, 

And,  tho’  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on, 
And  those  white-favor’d  horses 
wait ; 

They  rise,  but  linger ; it  is  late ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 

From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew, 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look’d,  and  what  he 
said, 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 
The  shade  of  passing  thought, 
the  wealth 

Of  words  and  wit,  the  double 
health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-tiines- 
three, 

And  last  the  dance ; — till  I retire : 
Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake 
so  loud, 

And  high  in  heaven  the  stream- 
ing cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a rising  fire : 

And  rise,  O moon,  from  yonder  down, 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing 
rills. 


And  catch  at  every  mountain 
head, 

And  o’er  the  friths  that  branch 
and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro’  the  hills ; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors/ 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the 
wall ; 

And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 
To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds. 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A soul  shall  draw  from  out  the 
vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 

And,  moved  thro’  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a closer  link 
Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge ; under  whose  com- 
mand 

Is  Earth  and  Earth’s,  and  in  their 
hand 

is  Nature  like  an  open  book ; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and 
did, 

And  hoped,  and  suffer’d,  is  but 
seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 
That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


QUEEN  MAET: 

A DRAMA. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONAE. 

Queen  Mart. 

Philip,  King  of  Naples  and  Sicily , afterwards  King  of  Spain. 

The  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Reginald  Pole,  Cardinal  and  Papal  Legate. 

Simon  Renard,  Spanish  Ambassador. 

Le  Sieur  de  Noailles,  French  Ambassador. 

Thomas  Cranmer,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury . 

Sir  Nicholas  Heath,  Archbishop  of  York;  Lord  Chancellor  after  Gardiner. 
Edward  Courtenay,  Earl  of  Devon. 

Lord  William  Howard,  afterwards  Lord  Howard,  and  Lord  High  Admiral . 
Lord  Williams  of  Thame.  Lord  Paget.  Lord  Petre. 

Stephen  Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester  and  Lord  Chancellor. 

Edmund  Bonner,  Bishop  of  London.  Thomas  Thirlby,  Bishop  of  Ely. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  ) Insurrecti  Leaders. 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford  ) * 

Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall.  Sir  Robert  Southwell. 

Sir  Henry  Bedingfield.  Sir  William  Cecil. 

Sir  Thomas  White,  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 

The  Duke  of  Alva  / ..  D;  r 

The  Count  de  Feria  f attendmS  on  PhlUP- 

Peter  Martyr.  Father  Cole.  Father  Bourne. 

Villa  Garcia.  Soto. 

Captain  Brett  l a u.  * r tj t « 

Anthony  Knyvett  \ Adherents  of  Wyatt. 

Peters,  Gentleman  of  Lord  Howard. 

Roger,  Servant  to  Noailles.  William,  Servant  to  Wyatt. 

Steward  of  Household  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Old  Nokes  and  Nokes. 

Marchioness  of  Exeter,  Mother  of  Courtenay . 

L^Y  MAGDrLEN  DaCRES  | Waiti"S  *°  tU 

Alice. 

Maid  of  Honor  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

TnjN  } two  Country  Wives. 

Lords  and  other  Attendants,  Members  of  the  Privy  Council,  Members  of 
Parliament,  Two  Gentlemen,  Aldermen,  Citizens,  Peasants,  Ushers, 
Messengers,  Guards,  Pages,  Gospellers,  Marshalmen,  etc. 


526 


QUEEN  MARY. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  — Aldgate  richly 

DECORATED 

Crowd.  Marshalmen. 

Marshalman.  Stand  back,  keep  a 
clear  lane ! When  will  her  Majesty 
pass,  sayst  thou  ? why  now,  even 
now ; wherefore  draw  back  your 
heads  and  your  horns  before  I break 
them,  and  make  what  noise  you  will 
with  your  tongues,  so  it  be  not  trea- 
son. Long  live  Queen  Mary,  the  law- 
ful and  legitimate  daughter  of  Harry 
the  Eighth!  Shout,  knaves  ! 

Citizens.  Long  live  Queen  Mary  ! 

First  Citizen.  That’s  a hard  word, 
legitimate ; what  does  it  mean  ? 

Second  Citizen.  It  means  a bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  Nay,  it  means  true- 

bu:v 

First  Citizen.  Why,  didn’t  the  Par- 
liament make  her  a bastard  ? 

Second  Citizen.  _ ; ; ijwus  che  Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Third  Citizen.  That  was  after,  man  ; 
that  was  after. 

First  Citizen.  Then  which  is  the 
bastard  ? 

Second  Citizen.  Troth,  they  be  both 
bastards  by  Act  of  Parliament  and 
Council. 

Third  Citizen.  Ay,  the  Parliament 
can  make  every  true-born  man  of  us 
a bastard.  Old  Nokes,  can’t  it  make 
thee  a bastard  ? thou  shouldst  know, 
for  thou  art  as  white  as  three  Christ- 
masses. 

Old  Nokes  (dreamily).  Who’s  a-pass- 
ing  1 King  Edward  or  King  Richard  1 

Third  Citizen.  No,  old  Nokes. 

Old  Nokes.  It’s  Harry  ! 

Third  Citizen.  It’s  Queen  Mary. 

Old  Nokes.  The  blessed  Mary’s  a- 
passing ! [Falls  on  his  knees. 

Nokes.  Let  father  alone,  my  mas- 
ters ! he’s  past  your  questioning. 

Third  Citizen.  Answer  thou  for 
him,  then ! thou’rt  no  such  cockerel 


thyself,  for  thou  was  born  i’  the  tail 
end  of  old  Harry  the  Seventh. 

Nokes.  Eh  ! that  was  afore  bastard- 
making began.  I was  born  true  man 
at  five  in  the  forenoon  i’  the  tail  of 
old  Harry,  and  so  they  can’t  make 
me  a bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  But  if  Parliament 
can  make  the  Queen  a bastard,  why, 
it  follows  all  the  more  that  they  can 
make  thee  one,  who  art  fray’d  i’  the 
knees,  and  out  at  the  elbow,  and  bald 
o’  the  back,  and  bursten  at  the  toes, 
and  down  at  heels. 

Nokes.  I was  born  of  a true  man 
and  a ring’d  wife,  and  I can’t  argue 
upon  it;  but  I and  my  old  woman  ’ud 
burn  upon  it,  that  would  we. 

Marshalman.  What  are  you  cack- 
ling of  bastardy  under  the  Queen’s 
own  nose  ? I’ll  have  you  flogg’d  and 
burnt  too,  by  the  Rood  I will. 

First  Citizen.  He  swears  by  the 
Rood.  Whew  1 

Second  Citizen.  Hark!  the  trumpets. 

[The  Procession  passes,  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  riding  side  by  side,  and 
disappears  under  the  gate. 

Citizens.  Long  live  Queen  Mary ! 
down  with  all  traitors  ! God  save  her 
Grace  ; and  death  to  Northumberland ! 

[Exeunt. 

Manent  Two  Gentlemen. 

First  Gentleman.  By  God’s  light  a 
noble  creature,  right  royal ! 

Second  Gentleman.  She  looks  come- 
lier  than  ordinary  to-day ; but  to  my 
mind  the  Lady  Elizabeth  is  the  more 
nqble  and  royal. 

First  Gentleman.  I mean  the  Lady 
Elizabeth.  Did  you  hear  (I  have  a 
daughter  in  her  service  who  reported 
it)  that  she  met  the  Queen  at  Wan- 
stead  with  five  hundred  horse,  and  the 
Queen  (tho’  some  say  they  be  much 
divided)  took  her  hand,  call’d  her 
sweet  sister,  and  kiss’d  not  her  alone, 
but  all  the  ladies  of  her  following. 

Second  Gentleman.  Ay,  that  was  in 


QUEEN  MARY. 


527 


her  hour  of  joy  ; there  will  be  plenty 
to  sunder  and  unsister  them  again  : 
this  Gardiner  for  one,  who  is  to  be 
made  Lord  Chancellor,  and  will 
pounce  like  a wild  beast  out  of  his 
cage  to  worry  Cranmer. 

First  Gentleman.  And  furthermore, 
my  daughter  said  that  when  there  rose 
a talk  of  the  late  rebellion,  she  spoke 
even  of  Northumberland  pitifully,  and 
of  the  good  Lady  Jane  as  a poor  inno- 
cent child  who  had  but  obeyed  her 
father;  and  furthermore,  she  said  that 
no  one  in  her  time  should  be  burnt 
for  heresy. 

Second  Gentleman.  Well,  sir,  I look 
for  happy  times. 

First  Gentleman.  There  is  but  one 
thing  against  them.  I know  not  if 
you  know. 

Second  Gentleman.  I suppose  you 
touch  upon  the  rumor  that  Charles, 
the  master  of  the  world,  has  offer’d 
her  his  son  Philip,  the  Pope  and  the 
Devil.  • I trust  it  is  but  a rumor. 

First  Gentleman.  She  is  going  now 
to  the  Tower  to  loose  the  prisoners 
there,  and  among  them  Courtenay,  to 
be  made  Earl  of  Devon,  of  royal 
blood,  of  splendid  feature,  whom  the 
council  and  all  her  people  wish  her  to 
marry.  May  it  be  so,  for  we  are  many 
of  us  Catholics,  but  few  Papists,'  and 
the  Hot  Gospellers  will  go  mad  upon 
it. 

Second  Gentleman.  Was  she  not 
betroth’d  in  her  babyhood  to  the 
Great  Emperor  himself  ? 

First  Gentleman.  Ay,  but  he’s  too 

old. 

Second  Gentleman.  And  again  to  her 
cousin  Reginald  Pole,  now  Cardinal ; 
but  I hear  that  he  too  is  full  of  aches 
and  broken  before  his  day. 

First  Gentleman.  0,  the  Pope  could 
dispense  with  his  Cardinalate,  and  his 
achage,  and  his  breakage,  if  that  were 
all : will  you  not  follow  the  proces- 
sion ? 

Second  Gentleman.  No ; I have  seen 
enough  for  this  day. 

First  Gentleman.  Well,  I shall  fol- 


low ; if  I can  get  near  enough  I shall 
judge  with  my  own  eyes  whether  her 
Grace  incline  to  this  splendid  scion  of 
Plantagenet.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

A Room  in  Lambeth  Palace. 

Cranmer.  To  Strasburg,  Antwerp, 
Frankfort,  Zurich,  Worms, 
Geneva,  Basle  — our  Bishops  from 
their  sees 

Or  fled,  they  say,  or  flying  — Poinet, 
Barlow, 

Bale,  Scory,  Coverdale ; besides  the 
Deans 

Of  Christchurch,  Durham,  Exeter,  and 
Wells  — 

Ailmer  and  Bullingham,  and  hundreds 
more ; 

So  they  report : I shall  be  left  alone. 
No  : Hooper,  Ridley,  Latimer  will  not 

fly- 

Enter  Peter  Martyr. 

Peter  Martyr.  Fly,  Cranmer!  were 
there  nothing  else,  your  name 
Stands  first  of  those  who  sign’d  the 
Letters  Patent 

That  gave  her  royal  crown  to  Lady 
Jane. 

Cranmer.  Stand  first  it  may,  but  it 
was  written  last : 

Those  that  are  now  her  Privy  Council, 
sign’d 

Before  me  : nay,  the  Judges  had  pro- 
nounced 

That  our  young  Edward  might  be- 
queath the  crown 

Of  England,  putting  by  his  father’s 
will. 

Yet  I stood  out,  till  Edward  sent  for 
me. 

The  wan  boy-king/ with  his  fast-fading 
eyes 

Fixt  hard  on  mine,  his  frail  transpar- 
ent hand, 

Damp  with  the  sweat  of  death,  and 
griping  mine, 

Whisper’d  me,  if  I loved  him,  not  to 
yield 


528 


QUEEN  MARY. 


His  Church  of  England  to  the  Papal 
wolf 

And  Mary  ; then  I could  no  more  — 
I sign’d. 

Nay,  for  bare  shame  of  inconsis- 
tency, 

She  cannot  pass  her  traitor  council  by, 
To  make  me  headless. 

Peter  Martur.  That  might  be  for- 
given. 

I tell  you,  fly,  my  Lord.  You  do  not 
own 

The  bodily  presence  in  the  Eucharist, 
Their  wafer  and  perpetual  sacrifice : 
Your  creed  will  be  your  death. 

Cranmer.  Step  after  step, 

Thro’  many  voices  crying  right  and 
left, 

Have  I climb’d  back  into  the  primal 
church, 

And  stand  within  the  porch,  and 
Christ  with  me : 

My  flight  were  such  a scandal  to  the 
faith, 

The  downfall  of  so  many  simple  souls, 
I dare  not  leave  my  post. 

Peter  Martyr.  But  you  divorced 
Queen  Catharine  and  her  father; 

hence,  her  hate 
Will  burn  till  you  are  burn’d. 

Cranmer.  I cannot  help  it. 

The  Canonists  and  Schoolmen  were 
with  me. 

“ Thou  shalt  not  wed  thy  brother’s 
wife.”  — ’Tis  written, 

“ They  shall  be  childless.”  True, 
Mary  was  born, 

But  France  would  not  accept  her  for 
a bride 

As  being  born  from  incest ; and  this 
wrought 

Upon  the  king;  and  child  by  child, 
you  know, 

Were  momentary  sparkles  out  as 
quick 

Almost  as  kindled ; and  he  brought 
his  doubts 

And  fears  to  me.  Peter,  I’ll  swear 
for  him 

He  did  believe  the  bond  incestuous. 
But  wherefore  am  I trenching  on  the 
time 


That  should  already  have  seen  your 
steps  a mile 

From  me  and  Lambeth  ? God  be 
with  you ! Go. 

Peter  Martyr.  Ah,  but  how  fierce  a 
letter  you  wrote  against 

Their  superstition  when  they  slander’d 
you 

For  setting  up  a mass  at  Canterbury 

To  please  the  Queen. 

Cranmer.  It  was  a wheedling  monk 

Set  up  the  mass. 

Peter  Martyr.  I know  it,  my  good 
Lord. 

But  you  so  bubbled  over  with  hot 
terms 

Of  Satan,  liars,  blasphemy,  Anti- 
christ, 

She  never  will  forgive  you.  Fly,  my 
Lord,  fly ! 

Cranmer.  I wrote  it,  and  God  grant 
me  power  to  burn  ! 

Peter  Martyr.  They  have  given  me 
a safe  conduct : for  all  that 

I dare  not  stay.  I fear,  I fear,  I see 
you, 

Dear  friend,  for  the  last  time;  fare- 
well, and  fly. 

Cranmer.  Fly  and  farewell,  and  let 
me  die  the  death. 

[Exit  Peter  Martyr. 

Enter  Old  Servant. 

O,  kind  and  gentle  master,  the  Queen’s 
Officers 

Are  here  in  force  to  take  you  to  the 
Tower. 

Cranmer.  Ay,  gentle  friend,  admit 
them.  I will  go. 

I thank  my  God  it  is  too  late  to  fly. 

[Exeunt. 


Father  Bourne  ip  the  pulpit.  A 
crowd.  Marchioness  of  Exeter, 
Courtenay.  The  Sieur  de 
Noailles  and  his  man  Roger  in 
front  of  the  stage.  Hubbub. 

Noailles.  Hast  thou  let  fall  those 
papers  in  the  palace  ? 


SCENE  III.  — St.  Paul’s  Cross. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


529 


Roger.  Ay,  sir. 

Noailles.  “ There  will  be  no  peace 
for  Mary  till  Elizabeth  lose  her  head.” 

Roger.  Ay,  sir. 

Noailles.  And  the  other,  “ Long  live 
Elizabeth  the  Queen  ! ” 

Roger.  Ay,  sir;  she  needs  must 
tread  upon  them. 

Noailles.  Well. 

These  beastly  swine  make  such  a 
grunting  here, 

I cannot  catch  what  Father  Bourne  is 
saying. 

Roger.  Quiet  a moment,  my  mas- 
ters ; hear  what  the  shaveling  has  to 
say  for  himself. 

Crowd.  Hush  — hear  ! 

Bourne.  — and  so  this  unhappy 
land,  long  divided  in  itself,  and  sever’d 
from  the  faith,  will  return  into  the  one 
true  fold,  seeing  that  our  gracious 
Virgin  Queen  hath 

Crowd.  No  pope ! no  pope  ! 

Roger  (to  those  about  him,  mimicking 
Bburne).  — hath  sent  for  the  holy 
legate  of  the  holy  father  the  Pope, 
Cardinal  Pole,  to  give  us  all  that  holy 
absolution  which 

First  Citizen.  Old  Bourne  to  the 
life  ! 

Second  Citizen.  Holy  absolution ! 
holy  Inquisition ! 

Third  Citizen.  Down  with  the 
Papist ! 

[ Hubbub . 

Bourne.  — and  now  that  your  good 
bishop,  Bonner,  who  hath  lain  so  long 
under  bonds  for  the  faith  — [ Hubbub . 

Noailles.  Friend  Roger,  steal  thou 
in  among  the  crowd, 

And  get  the  swine  to  shout  Elizabeth. 
Yon  gray  old  Gospeller,  sour  as  mid- 
winter, 

Begin  with  him. 

Roger  (goes).  By  the  mass,  old 
friend,  we’ll  have  no  pope  here  while 
the  Lady  Elizabeth  lives. 

Gospeller.  Art  thou  of  the  true  faith, 
fellow,  that  swearest  by  the  mass  ? 

Roger.  Ay,  that  am  I,  new  con- 
verted, but  the  old  leaven  sticks  to  my 
tongue  yet. 


First  Citizen.  He  says  right;  by 
the  mass  we’ll  have  no  mass  here. 

Voices  of  the  crowd.  Peace ! hear 
him ; let  his  own  words  damn  the 
Papist.  From  thine  own  mouth  I 
judge  thee  — tear  him  down  ! 

Bourne.  — and  since  our  Gracious 
Queen,  let  me  call  her  our  second 
Virgin  Mary,  hath  begun  to  re-edify 
the  true  temple 

First  Citizen.  Virgin  Mary ! we’ll 
have  no  virgins  here  — we’ll  have  the 
Lady  Elizabeth ! 

\_Swords  are  drawn,  a.  knife  is 
hurled  and  sticks  in  the  pulpit. 
The  mob  throng  to  the  pulpit 
stairs. 

Marchioness  of  Exeter.  Son  Courte- 
nay, wilt  thou  see  the  holy 
father 

Murdered  before  thy  face  % up,  son, 
and  save  him ! 

They  love  thee,  and  thou  canst  not 
come  to  harm. 

Courtenay  (in  the  pulpit ).  Shame, 
shame,  my  masters ! are  you 
English-born, 

And  set  yourselves  by  hundreds 
against  one  % 

Crowd.  A Courtenay!  a Courtenay! 

[A  train  of  Spanish  servants  crosses 
at  the  back  of  the  stage. 

Noailles.  These  birds  of  passage 
come  before  their  time  : 

Stave  off  the  crowd  upon  the  Spaniard 
there. 

Roger.  My  masters,  yonder’s  fatter 
game  for  you 

Than  this  old  gaping  gurgoyle ; look 
you  there  — 

The  prince  of  Spain  coming  to  wed 
our  Queen ! 

After  him,  boys ! and  pelt  him  from 
the  city. 

[ They  seize  stones  and  follow  the 
Spaniards.  Exeunt  on  the  other 
side  Marchioness  of  Exeter  and 
Attendants. 

Noailles  (to  Roger).  Stand  from 
me.  If  Elizabeth  lose  her 
head  - — 

That  makes  for  France. 


530 


QUEEN  MARY. 


And  if  her  people,  anger’d  thereupon, 

Arise  against  her  and  dethrone  the 
Queen  — 

That  makes  for  France. 

And  if  I breed  confusion  anyway  — 

That  makes  for  France. 

Good-day,  my  Lord  of  Devon  ; 

A bold  heart  yours  to  beard  that  rag- 
ing mob ! 

Courtenay.  My  mother  said.  Go  up  ; 
and  up  I went. 

I knew  they  would  not  do  me  any 
wrong, 

For  I am  mighty  popular  with  them, 
Noailles. 

Noailles.  You  look’d  a king. 

Courtenay.  Why  not?  lam 

king’s  blood. 

Noailles.  And  in  the  whirl  of  change 
may  come  to  be  one. 

Courtenay.  Ah ! 

Noailles.  But  does  your  gracious 
Queen  entreat  you  kinglike  ? 

Courtenay.  ’Fore  God,  I think  she 
entreats  me  like  a child. 

Noailles.  You’ve  but  a dull  life  in 
this  maiden  court, 

I fear,  my  Lord  ? 

Courtenay.  A life  of  nods  apd  yawns. 

Noailles.  So  you  would  honor  my 
poor  house  to-night, 

We  might  enliven  you.  Divers  honest 
fellows, 

The  Duke  of  Suffolk  lately  freed  from 
prison, 

Sir  Peter  Carew  and  Sir  Thomas 
Wyatt, 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  and  some  more 
— we  play. 

Courtenay.  At  what  ? 

Noailles.  The  Game  of  Chess. 

Courtenay.  The  Game  of  Chess  ! 

I can  play  well,  and  I shall  beat  you 
there. 

Noailles.  Ay,  but  we  play  with 
Henry,  King  of  France, 

And  certain  of  his  court. 

His  Highness  makes  his  moves  across 
the  Channel, 

We  answer  him  with  ours,  and  there 
are  messengers 

That  go  between  us. 


Courtenay.  Why,  such  a game,  sir, 
were  whole  years  a playing. 

Noailles.  Nay ; not  so  long  I trust. 
That  all  depends 

Upon  the  skill  and  swiftness  of  the 
players. 

Courtenay.  The  King  is  skilful  at  it? 

Noailles.  Very,  my  Lord. 

Courtenay.  And  the  stakes  high  ? 

Noailles.  But  not  beyond  your 
means. 

Courtenay.  Well,  I’m  the  first  of 
players.  I shall  win. 

Noailles.  With  our  advice  and  in 
our  company, 

And  so  you  well  attend  to  the  king’s 
moves, 

I think  you  may. 

Courtenay.  When  do  you  meet  ? 

Noailles.  To-night. 

Courtenay  (aside).  I will  be  there; 
the  fellow’s  at  his  tricks  — 

Deep  — I shall  fathom  him.  (Aloud.) 
Good  morning,  Noailles. 

{Exit  Courtenay. 

Noailles.  Good-day,  my  Lord. 
Strange  game  of  chess  ! a King 

That  with  her  own  pawns  plays  against 
a Queen, 

Whose  play  is  all  to  find  herself  a 
King. 

Ay ; but  this  fine  blue-blooded  Courte- 
nay seems 

Too  princely  for  a pawn.  Call  him  a 
Knight, 

That,  with  an  ass’s,  not  a horse’s  head, 

Skips  every  way,  from  levity  or  from 
fear. 

Well,  we  shall  use  him  somehow,  so 
that  Gardiner 

And  Simon  Renard  spy  not  out  our 
game 

Too  early.  Roger,  thinkest  thou  that 
anyone 

Suspected  thee  to  be  my  man  ? 

Royer.  Not  one,  sir. 

Noailles.  No  ! the  disguise  was  per- 
fect. Let’s  away.  {Exeunt 


QUEEN  MARY. 


531 


SCENE  IV. 

London.  A Room  in  the  Palace. 

Elizabeth.  Enter  Courtenay. 

Courtenay.  So  yet  am  I, 

Unless  my  friends  and  mirrors  lie  to 
me, 

A goodlier-looking  fellow  than  this 
Philip. 

Pah! 

The  Queen  is  ill  advised  : shall  I turn 
traitor  ? 

They’ve  almost  talked  me  into  it : yet 
the  word 

Affrights  me  somewhat : to  be  such  a 
one 

As  Harry  Bolingbroke  hath  a lure  in 
it. 

Good  now,  my  Lady  Queen,  tho’  by 
your  age, 

And  by  your  looks  you  are  not  worth 
the  having, 

Yet  by  your  crown  you  are. 

[. Seeing  Elizabeth. 

The  Princess  there  ? 

If  I tried  her  and  la  — she’s  amor- 
ous. 

Have  we  not  heard  of  her  in  Edward’s 
time, 

Her  freaks  and  frolics  with  the  late 
Lord  Admiral  ? 

I do  believe  she’d  yield.  I should  be 
still 

A party  in  the  state ; and  then,  who 
knows  — 

Elizabeth.  What  are  you  musing  on, 
my  Lord  of  Devon  ? 

Courtenay.  Has  not  the  Queen  — 

Elizabeth.  Done  what,  Sir  ? 

Courtenay.  — made  you  follow 

The  Lady  Suffolk  and  the  Lady  Len- 
nox ? — 

You, 

The  heir  presumptive. 

Elizabeth.  Why  do  you  ask  1 you 
know  it. 

Courtenay.  You  needs  must  bear  it 
hardly. 

Elizabeth.  No,  indeed ! 

I am  utterly  submissive  to  the  Queen. 


Courtenay.  Well,  I was  musing  up- 
on that ; the  Queen 
Is  both  my  foe  and  j^ours  ; we  should 
be  friends. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  the  hatred  of 
another  to  us 

Is  no  true  bond  of  friendship. 

Courtenay.  Might  it  not 

Be  the  rough  preface  of  some  closer 
bond  ? 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  you  late  were 
loosed  from  out  the  Tower, 
Where,  like  a butterfly  in  a chrysalis, 
You  spent  your  life  ; that  broken,  out 
you  flutter 

Thro’  the  new  world,  go  zigzag,  now 
would  settle 

Upon  this  flower,  now  that ; but  all 
things  here 

At  court  are  known ; you  have  solicited 
The  Queen,  and  been  rejected. 

Courtenay.  Flower,  she! 

Half  faded  ! but  you,  cousin,  are  fresh 
and  sweet 

As  the  first  flower  no  bee  has  ever 
tried. 

Elizabeth.  Are  you  the  bee  to  try 
me  1 why,  but  now 
I called  you  butterfly. 

Courtenay.  You  did  me  wrong, 
I love  not  to  be  called  a butterfly : 
Why  do  you  call  me  butterfly  ? 

Elizabeth.  Why  do  you  go  so  gay 
then  ? 

Courtenay.  Velvet  and  gold. 

This  dress  was  made  me  as  the  Earl 
of  Devon 

To  take  my  seat  in ; looks  it  not  right 
royal  ? 

Elizabeth.  So  royal  that  the  Queen 
forbad  you  wearing  it. 

Courtenay.  I wear  it  then  to  spite 
her. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  my  Lord  ; 
I see  you  in  the  Tower  again.  Her 
Majesty 

Hears  you  affect  the  Prince  — prelates 
kneel  to  you.  — 

Courtenay.  I am  the  noblest  blood 
in  Europe,  Madam, 

A Courtenay  of  Devon,  and  her 
cousin. 


532 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Elizabeth.  She  hears  you  make 
your  boast  that  after  all 

She  means  to  wed  you.  Folly,  my 
good  Lord. 

Courtenay.  How  folly  ? a great 
party  in  the  state 

Wills  me  to  wed  her. 

Elizabeth.  Failing  her,  my  Lord, 

Doth  not  as  great  a party  in  the 
state 

Will  you  to  wed  me  ? 

Courtenay.  Even  so,  fair  lady. 

Elizabeth.  You  know  to  flatter 
ladies. 

Courtenay.  Nay,  I meant 

True  matters  of  the  heart. 

Elizabeth.  My  heart,  my  Lord, 

Is  no  great  party  in  the  state  as  yet. 

Courtenay.  Great,  said  you  ? nay, 
you  shall  be  great.  I love  you, 

Lay  my  life  in  your  hands.  Can  you 
be  close  1 

Elizabeth.  Can  you,  my  Lord  ? 

Courtenay.  Close  as  a miser’s  casket. 

Listen : 

The  King  of  France,  Noailles  the 
Ambassador, 

The  Duke  of  Suffolk  and  Sir  Peter 
Carewr, 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  I myself,  some 
others, 

Have  sworn  this  Spanish  marriage 
shall  not  be. 

If  Mary  will  not  hear  us  — well  — 
conjecture  — 

Were  I in  Devon  with  my  wedded 
bride, 

The  people  there  so  worship  me  — 
Your  ear ; 

You  shall  be  Queen. 

Elizabeth.  You  speak  too  low, 

my  Lord ; 

I cannot  hear  you. 

Courtenay.  I’ll  repeat  it. 

Elizabeth.  No ! 

Stand  further  off,  or  you  may  lose 
your  head. 

Courtenay.  I have  a head  to  lose 
for  your  sweet  sake. 

Elizabeth.  Have  you,  my  Lord  1 
Best  keep  it  for  your  own. 

Kay,  pout  not,  cousin. 


Not  many  friends  are  mine,  except 
indeed 

Among  the  many.  I believe  you 
mine  ; 

And  so  you  may  continue  mine,  fare- 
well, 

And  that  at  once. 

Enter  Mary,  behind'. 

Mary.  Whispering  — leagued  to- 
gether 

To  bar  me  from  my  Philip. 

Courtenay.  Pray  — consider  — 

Elizabeth  ( seeing  the  Queen).  Well, 
that’s  a noble  horse  of  yours, 
my  Lord. 

I trust  that  he  will  carry  you  well 
to-day, 

And  heal  your  headache. 

Courtenay.  You  are  wild;  what 
headache  ? 

Heartache,  perchance  ; not  headache. 

Elizabeth  ( aside  to  Courtenay.)  Are 
you  blind  ? 

[Courtenay  sees  the  Queen  and  exit. 
Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Lord  William  Howard. 

Howard.  Was  that  my  Lord  of 
Devon  1 do  not  you 

Be  seen  in  corners  with  my  Lord  of 
Devon. 

He  hath  fallen  out  of  favor  with  the 
Queen. 

She  fears  the  Lords  may  side  with 
you  and  him 

Against  her  marriage ; therefore  is  he 
dangerous. 

And  if  this  Prince  of  fluff  and  feather 
come 

To  woo  you,  niece,  he  is  dangerous 
everyway. 

Elizabeth.  Not  very  dangerous  that 
way,  my  good  uncle. 

Howard.  But  your  own  state  is  full 
of  danger  here. 

The  disaffected,  heretics,  reformers, 

Look  to  you  as  the  one  to  crown  their 
ends. 

Mix  not  yourself  with  any  plot  I pray 
you; 


QUEEN  MARY. 


533 


Nay,  if  by  chance  you  hear  of  any  such, 

Speak  not  thereof  — no,  not  to  your 
best  friend, 

Lest  you  should  be  confounded  with 
it.  Still  — 

Perinde  ac  cadaver  — as  the  priest 
says, 

You  know  your  Latin  — quiet  as  a 
dead  body. 

What  was  my  Lord  of  Devon  telling 
you? 

Elizabeth.  Whether  he  told  me  any- 
thing or  not, 

I follow  your  good  counsel,  gracious 
uncle. 

Quiet  as  a dead  body. 

Howard.  You  do  right  well. 

I do  not  care  to  know ; but  this  I 
charge  you, 

Tell  Courtenay  nothing.  The  Lord 
Chancellor 

(I  count  it  as  a kind  of  virtue  in  him, 

He  hath  not  many),  as  a mastiff  dog 

May  love  a puppy  cur  for  no  more 
reason 

Than  that  the  twain  have  been  tied 
up  together, 

Thus  Gardiner  — for  the  two  were 
fellow-prisoners 

So  many  years  in  yon  accursed 
Tower  — 

Hath  taken  to  this  Courtenay.  Look 
to  it,  niece, 

He  hath  no  fence  when  Gardiner 
questions  him; 

All  oozes  out ; yet  him  — because 
they  know  him 

The  last  White  Rose,  the  last  Plan- 
tagenet 

(Nay,  there  is  Cardinal  Pole,  too),  the 
people 

Claim  as  their  natural  leader  — ay, 
some  say, 

That  you  shall  marry  him,  make  him 
King  belike. 

Elizabeth.  Do  they  say  so,  good 
uncle  ? 

Howard.  Ay,  good  niece  ! 

You  should  be  plain  and  open  with 
me,  niece. 

You  should  not  play  upon  me. 

Elizabeth.  No,  good  uncle. 


Enter  Gardiner. 

Gardiner.  The  Queen  would  see 
your  Grace  upon  the  moment. 

Elizabeth.  Why,  my  lord  Bishop  ? 

Gardiner.  I think  she  means  to 
counsel  your  withdrawing 
To  Ashridge,  or  some  other  country 
house. 

Elizabeth.  Why,  my  lord  Bishop  ' 

Gardiner.  I do  but  bring  the  mes- 
sage, know  no  more. 

Your  Grace  will  hear  her  reasons 
from  herself. 

Elizabeth.  ’Tis  mine  own  wish  ful- 
fill’d before  the  word 
Was  spoken,  for  in  truth  I had  meant 
to  crave 

Permission  of  her  Highness  to  retire 
To  Ashridge,  and  pursue  my  studies 
there. 

Gardiner.  Madam,  to  have  the  wish 
before  the  word 

Is  man’s  good  Fairy  — and  the  Queen 
is  yours. 

I left  her  with  rich  jewels  in  her  hand, 
Whereof  ’tis  like  enough  she  means 
to  make 

A farewell  present  to  your  Grace. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord, 

I have  the  jewel  of  a loyal  heart. 

Gardiner.  I doubt  it  not,  Madam, 
most  loyal.  [ Bows  low  and  exit. 

Howard.  See, 

This  comes  of  parleying  with  my  Lord 
of  Devon. 

Well,  well,  you  must  obey  ; and  I my- 
self 

Believe  it  will  be  better  for  your  wel- 
fare. 

Your  time  will  come. 

Elizabeth.  I think  my  time  will 
come. 

Uncle, 

I am  of  sovereign  nature,  that  I know. 
Not  to  be  quell’d;  and  I have  felt 
within  me 

Stirrings  of  some  great  doom  when 
God’s  just  hour 

Peals  — but  this  fierce  old  Gardiner 
— his  big  baldness, 

That  irritable  forelock  which  he  rubs, 


534 


QUEEN  MARY. 


His  buzzard  beak  and  deep-incavern’d 
eyes 

Half  fright  me. 

Howard.  You’ve  a bold  heart ; keep 
it  so. 

He  cannot  touch  you  save  that  you 
turn  traitor ; 

And  so  take  heed  I pray  you — you 
are  one 

Who  love  that  men  should  smile  up- 
on you,  niece. 

They’d  smile  you  into  treason  — some 
of  them. 

Elizabeth.  I spy  the  rock  beneath 
the  smiling  sea. 

Hut  if  this  Philip,  the  proud  Catholic 
prince, 

And  this  bald  priest,  and  she  that 
hates  me,  seek 

In  that  lone  house,  to  practise  on  my 
life, 

By  poison,  fire,  shot,  stab  — 

Howard.  They  will  not,  niece. 

Mine  is  the  fleet  and  all  the  power  at 
sea  — 

( )r  will  be  in  a moment.  If  they  dared 

To  harm  you,  I would  blow  this  Philip 
and  all 

Your  trouble  to  the  dogstar  and  the 
devil. 

Elizabeth.  To  the  Pleiads,  uncle ; 
they  have  lost  a sister. 

Howard.  But  why  say  that  ? what 
have  you  done  to  lose  her  1 

Come,  come,  I will  go  with  you  to  the 
Queen.  [ Exeunt . 


SCENE  Y. 

A Room  in  the  Palace. 

Mary  with  Philip’s  miniature.  Alice. 

Mari/  ( kissing  the  miniature).  Most 
goodly,  Kinglike  and  an  Em- 
peror’s son,  — 

A king  to  be,  — is  he  not  noble,  girl  ? 
Alice.  Goodly  enough,  your  Grace, 
and  yet,  methinks, 

I have  seen  goodlier. 

Mary.  Ay ; some  waxen  doll 


Thy  baby  eyes  have  rested  on,  belike ; 

All  red  and  white,  the  fashion  of  our 
land. 

But  my  good  mother  came  (God  rest 
her  soul) 

Of  Spain,  and  I am  Spanish  in  myself, 

And  in  my  likings. 

Alice.  By  your  Grace’s  leave 

Your  royal  mother  came  of  Spain, 
but  took 

To  the  English  red  and  white.  Your 
royal  father 

(For  so  they  say)  was  all  pure  lily  and 
rose 

In  his  youth,  and  like  a lady. 

Mary.  O,  just  God  ! 

Sweet  mother,  you  had  time  and  cause 
enough 

To  sicken  of  his  lilies  and  his  roses. 

Cast  off,  betray’d,  defamed,  divorced, 
forlorn ! 

And  then  the  King  — that  traitor  past 
forgiveness, 

The  false  archbishop  fawning  on  him, 
married 

The  mother  of  Elizabeth  — a heretic 

Ev’n  as  she  is ; but  God  hath  sent  me 
here 

To  take  such  order  with  all  heretics 

That  it  shall  be,  before  I die,  as  tho’ 

My  father  and  my  brother  had  not 
lived. 

What  wast  thou  saying  of  this  Lady 
Jane 

Now  in  the  Tower  1 

Alice.  Why,  Madam,  she  was  pass- 
ing 

Some  chapel  down  in  Essex,  and  with 
her 

Lady  Anne  Wharton,  and  the  Lady 
Anne 

Bow’d  to  the  Pyx;  but  Lady  Jane 
stood  up 

Stiff  as  the  very  backbone  of  heresy. 

And  wherefore  bow  ye  not,  says  Lady 
Anne, 

To  him  within  there  who  made  Heav- 
en and  Earth  1 

I cannot,  and  I dare  not,  tell  your 
Grace 

What  Lady  Jane  replied. 

Mary.  But  I will  have  it. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


535 


Alice.  She  said  — pray  pardon  me, 
and  pity  her  — 

She  hath  hearken’d  evil  counsel  — ah  ! 
she  said, 

The  baker  made  him. 

Mary.  Monstrous  ! blasphemous  ! 

She  ought  to  burn.  Hence,  thou  ( Exit 
Alice).  No  — being  traitor 

Her  head  will  fall : shall  it  ? she  is 
but  a child. 

We  do  not  kill  the  child  for  doing  that 

His  father  whipt  him  into  doing  — a 
head 

So  full  of  grace  and  beauty ! would 
that  mine 

Were  half  as  gracious  ! O,  my  lord 
to  be, 

My  love,  for  thy  sake  only. 

I am  eleven  years  older  than  he  is. 

But  will  he  care  for  that  ? 

No,  by  the  holy  Virgin,  being  noble, 

But  love  me  only  : then  the  bastard 
sprout, 

My  sister,  is  far  fairer  than  myself. 

Will  he  be  drawn  to  her  ? 

No,  being  of  the  true  faith  with  myself. 

Paget  is  for  him  — for  to  wed  with 
Spain 

Would  treble  England  — Gardiner  is 
against  him ; 

The  Council,  people,  Parliament 
against  him ; 

But  I will  have  him  ! My  hard  fa- 
ther hated  me  ; 

My  brother  rather  hated  me  than 
loved ; 

My  sister  cowers  and  hates  me.  Holy 
Virgin, 

Plead  with  thy  blessed  Son ; grant 
me  my  prayer : 

Give  me  my  Philip ; and  we  two  will 
lead 

The  living  waters  of  the  Faith  again 

Back  thro’  their  widow’d  channel 
here,  and  watch 

The  parch’d  banks  rolling  incense,  as 
of  old, 

To  heaven,  and  kindled  with  the 
palms  of  Christ ! 

Enter  Usher. 

Who  waits,  sir  1 


Usher.  Madam,  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. 

Mary.  Bid  him  come  in.  ( Enter 

Gardiner.)  Good  morning, 
my  good  Lord.  [ Exit  Usher. 

Gardiner.  That  every  morning  of 
your  Majesty 

May  be  most  good,  is  every  morning’s 
prayer 

Of  your  most  loyal  subject,  Stephen 
Gardiner. 

Mary.  Come  you  to  tell  me  this, 
my  Lord  1 

Gardiner.  And  more. 

Your  people  have  begun  to  learn  your 
worth. 

Your  pious  wash  to  pay  King  Ed- 
ward’s debts, 

Your  lavish  household  curb’d,  and  the 
remission 

Of  half  that  subsidy  levied  on  the 
people, 

Make  all  tongues  praise  and  all  hearts 
beat  for  you. 

I’d  have  you  yet  more  loved  : the 
realm  is  poor, 

The  exchequer  at  neap-tide  : we  might 
withdraw 

Part  of  our  garrison  at  Calais. 

Mary.  Calais ! 

Our  one  point  on  the  main,  the  gate 
of  France ! 

I am  Queen  of  England ; take  mine 
eyes,  mine  heart, 

But  do  not  lose  me  Calais. 

Gardiner.  Do  not  fear  it. 

Of  that  hereafter.  I say  your  Grace 
is  loved. 

That  I may  keep  you  thus,  who  am 
your  friend 

And  ever  faithful  counsellor,  might  I 
speak  ? 

Mary.  I can  forespeak  your  speak- 
ing. Would  I marry 

Prince  Philip,  if  all  England  hate 
him  ? That  is 

Your  question,  and  I front  it  with  an 
other : i 

Is  it  England,  or  a party  1 Now,  your 
answer. 

Gardiner.  My  answer  is,  I wear  be- 
neath my  dress 


536 


QUEEN  MARY. 


A shirt  of  mail : my  house  hath  been 
assaulted, 

And  when  I walk  abroad,  the  popu- 
lace, 

With  fingers  pointed  like  so  many 
daggers, 

Stab  me  in  fancy,  hissing  Spain  and 
Philip ; 

And  when  I sleep,  a hundred  men-at- 
arms 

Guard  my  poor  dreams  for  England. 
Men  would  murder  me, 

Because  they  think  me  favorer  of  this 
marriage. 

Mary.  And  that  were  hard  upon 
you,  my  Lord  Chancellor. 

Gardiner.  But  our  young  Earl  of 
Devon  — 

Mary.  Earl  of  Devon  ? 

I freed  him  from  the  Tower,  placed 
him  at  Court ; 

I made  him  Earl  of  Devon,  and  — the 
fool  — 

He  wrecks  his  health  and  wealth  on 
courtesans, 

And  rolls  himself  in  carrion  like  a 
dog. 

Gardiner.  More  like  a school-boy 
that  hath  broken  bounds, 

Sickening  himself  with  sweets. 

Mary.  I will  not  hear  of  him. 

Good,  then,  they  will  revolt : but  I am 
Tudor, 

And  shall  control  them. 

Gardiner.  I will  help  you,  Madam, 

Even  to  the  utmost.  All  the  church 
is  grateful. 

You  have  ousted  the  mock  priest,  re- 
pulpited 

The  shepherd  of  St.  Peter,  raised  the 
rood  again, 

And  brought  us  back  the  mass.  I am 
all  thanks 

To  God  and  to  your  Grace : yet  I 
know  well, 

Your  people,  and  I go  with  them  so 
far, 

Will  brook  nor  Pope  nor  Spaniard 
here  to  play 

The  tyrant,  or  in  commonwealth  or 
church. 


Mary  ( showing  the  picture).  Is  this 
the  face  of  one  who  plays  the 
tyrant  ? 

Peruse  it;  is  it  not  goodly,  ay,  and 
gentle  ? 

Gardiner.  Madam,  methinks  a cold 
face  and  a haughty. 

’And  when  your  Highness,  talks  of 
Courtenay  — 

Ay,  true  — a goodly  one.  I would 
his  life 

Were  half  as  goodly  (aside). 

Mary.  What  is  that  you  mutter  ? 

Gardiner.  Oh,  Madam,  take  it 
bluntly  ; marry  Philip, 

And  be  stepmother  of  a score  of 
sons ! 

The  prince  is  known  in  Spain,  in 
Flanders,  ha ! 

For  Philip  — 

Mary.  You  offend  us;  you  may 
leave  us. 

You  see  thro’  warping  glasses. 

Gardiner.  If  your  Majesty  — 

Mary.  I have  sworn  upon  the  body 
and  blood  of  Christ 

I’ll  none  but  Philip. 

Gardiner.  Hath  your  Grace  so 
sworn  1 

Mary.  Ay,  Simon  Renard  knows  it. 

Gardiner.  News  to  me  ! 

It  then  remains  for  your  poor  Gardi- 
ner, 

So  you  still  care  to  trust  him  some- 
what less 

Than  Simon  Renard,  to  compose  the 
event 

In  some  such  form  as  least  may  harm 
your  Grace. 

Mary.  I’ll  have  the  scandal  sounded 
to  the  mud. 

I know  it  a scandal. 

Gardiner.  All  my  hope  is  now 

It  may  be  found  a scandal. 

Mary.  You  offend  us. 

Gardiner  (aside).  These  princes  are 
like  children,  must  be  phys- 
ick’d, 

The  bitter  in  the  sweet.  I have  lost 
mine  office, 

It  may  be,  thro’  mine  honesty,  like  a 
fool.  [Exit. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


537 


Enter  Usher. 

Mary.  Who  waits  1 

Usher.  The  Ambassador  from 
France,  your  Grace. 

Mary  ( sits  down).  Bid  him  come  in. 
Good  morning,  Sir  de  Noailles. 

[Exit  Usher. 

Noailles  (entering).  A happy  morn- 
ing to  your  Majesty. 

Mary.  And  I should  some  time  have 
a happy  morning ; 

I have  had  none  yet.  What  says  the 
King  your  Master  ? 

Noailles.  Madam,  my  master  hears 
with  much  alarm, 

That  you  may  marry  Philip,  Prince  of 
Spain  — 

Foreseeing,  with  whate’er  unwilling- 
ness, 

That  if  this  Philip  be  the  titular  king 

Of  England,  and  at  war  with  him, 
your  Grace 

And  kingdom  will  be  suck’d  into  the 
war, 

Ay,  tho’  you  long  for  peace  ; where- 
fore, my  master, 

If  but  to  prove  your  Majesty’s  good- 
will, 

Would  fain  have  some  fresh  treaty 
drawn  between  you. 

Mary.  Why  some  fresh  treaty  ? 
wherefore  should  I do  it  'i 

Sir,  if  we  marry,  we  shall  still  main- 
tain 

All  former  treaties  with  his  Majesty. 

Our  royal  word  for  that ! and  your 
good  master, 

Pray  God  he  do  not  be  the  first  to 
break  them, 

Must  be  content  with  that ; and  so, 
farewell. 

Noailles  (going,  returns).  I would 
your  answer  had  been  other, 
Madam, 

For  I foresee  dark  days. 

Mary.  And  so  do  I,  sir ; 

Your  master  works  against  me  in  the 
dark. 

I do  believe  he  holp  Northumberland 

Against  me. 


Noailles.  Nay,  pure  phantasy,  your 
Grace. 

Why  should  he  move  against  you  ? 

Mary.  Will  you  hear  why  ? 

Mary  of  Scotland, — for  I have  not 
own’d 

My  sister,  and  I will  not,  — after 
me 

Is  heir  of  England ; and  my  royal 
father, 

To  make  the  crown  of  Scotland  one 
with  ours, 

Had  mark’d  her  for  my  brother  Ed- 
ward’s bride  ; 

Ay,  but  your  king  stole  her  a babe 
from  Scotland 

In  order  to  betroth  her  to  your  Dau- 
phin. 

See  then : 

Mary  of  Scotland,  married  to  your 
Dauphin, 

Would  make  our  England,  France: 

Mary  of  England,  joining  hands  with 
t Spain, 

Would  be  too  strong  for  France. 

Yea,  were  there  issue  born  to  her, 
Spain  and  we, 

One  crown,  might  rule  the  world. 
There  lies  your  fear. 

That  is  your  drift.  You  play  at  hide 
and  seek. 

Show  me  your  faces  ! 

Noailles.  Madam,  I am  amazed  : 

French,  I must  needs  wish  all  good 
things  for  France. 

That  must  be  pardon’d  me;  but  I pro- 
test 

Your  Grace’s  policy  hath  a farther 
flight 

Than  mine  into  the  future.  We  but 
seek 

Some  settled  ground  for  peace  to  stand 
upon. 

Mary.  Well,  we  will  leave  all  this, 
sir,  to  our  council. 

Have  you  seen  Philip  ever  ? 

Noailles.  Only  once. 

Mary.  Is  this  like  Philip  ? 

Noailles.  Ay,  but  nobler-looking. 

Mary.  Hath  he  the  large  ability  of 
Emperor  1 

Noailles.  No,  surely. 


538 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Mary.  I can  make  allowance  for 
thee, 

Thou  speakest  of  the  enemy  of  thy 
king. 

Noailles.  Make  no  allowance  for  the 
naked  truth. 

He  is  every  way  a lesser  man  than 
Charles  ; 

Stone-hard,  ice-cold  — no  dash  of  dar- 
ing in  him. 

Mary.  If  cold,  his  life  is  pure. 

Noailles.  Why  (smiling),  no,  indeed. 

Mary.  Sayst  thou  ? 

Noailles.  A very  wanton  life  indeed 
(smiling). 

Mary.  Your  audience  is  concluded, 
sir.  [ Exit  Noailles. 

You  cannot 

Learn  a man’s  nature  from  his  natural 
foe. 

Enter  Usher. 

Who  waits  rf 

Usher.  The  Ambassador  of  Spain, 
your  Grace.  [Exit. 

Enter  Simon  Renard. 

Mary  ( rising  to  meet  him).  Thou  art 
ever  welcome,  Simon  Renard. 
Hast  thou 

Brought  me  the  letter  which  thine 
Emperor  promised 

Long  since,  a formal  offer  of  the  hand 
Of  Philip  ? 

Renard.  Nay,  your  Grace,  it  hath 
not  reach’d  me. 

I know  not  wherefore  — some  mis- 
chance of  flood, 

And  broken  bridge,  or  spavin’d  horse, 
or  wave 

And  wind  at  their  old  battle  : he  must 
have  written. 

Mary.  But  Philip  never  writes  me 
one  poor  word, 

Which  in  his  absence  had  been  all  my 
wealth. 

Strange  in  a wooer ! 

Renard.  Yet  I know  the  Prince, 

So  your  king-parliament  suffer  him  to 
land, 

Yearns  to  set  foot  upon  your  island 
shore. 


Mary.  God  change  the  pebble 
which  his  kingly  foot 

First  presses  into  some  more  costly 
stone 

Than  ever  blinded  eye.  I’ll  have  one 
mark  it 

And  bring  it  me.  I’ll  have  it  burnish’d 
firelike ; 

I’ll  set  it  round  with  gold,  with  pearl, 
with  diamond. 

Let  the  great  angel  of  the  church 
come  with  him ; 

Stand  on  the  deck  and  spread  his 
wings  for  sail ! 

God  lay  the  waves  and  strow  the 
storms  at  sea, 

And  here  at  land  among  the  people  ! 
O Renard, 

I am  much  beset,  I am  almost  in  de- 
spair. 

Paget  is  ours.  Gardiner  perchance  is 
ours ; 

But  for  our  heretic  Parliament  — 
Renard.  O Madam, 

You  fly  your  thoughts  like  kites.  My 
master,  Charles, 

Bade  you  go  softly  with  your  heretics 
here, 

Until  your  throne  had  ceased  to  trem- 
ble. Then 

Spit  them  like  larks  for  aught  I care. 
Besides, 

When  Henry  broke  the  carcase  of 
your  church 

To  pieces,  there  were  many  wolves 
among  you 

Who  dragg’d  the  scatter’d  limbs  into 
their  den. 

The  Pope  would  have  you  make  them 
render  these ; 

So  would  your  cousin,  Cardinal  Pole ; 
ill  counsel ! 

These  let  them  keep  at  present ; stir 
not  yet 

This  matter  of  the  Church  lands.  At 
his  coming 

Your  star  will  rise. 

Mary.  My  star ! a baleful  one. 

I see  but  the  black  night,  and  hear  the 
wolf. 

What  star  1 


QUEEN  MARY. 


539 


Renard.  Your  star  will  be  your 
princely  son, 

Heir  of  this  England  and  the  Nether- 
lands ! 

And  if  your  wolf  the  while  should 
howl  for  more, 

We’ll  dust  him  from  a bag  of  Spanish 
gold. 

1 do  believe,  I have  dusted  some  al- 
ready, 

That,  soon  or  late,  your  Parliament  is 
ours. 

Mary.  Why  do  they  talk  so  foully 
of  your  Prince, 

Renard  ? 

Renard.  The  lot  of  Princes.  To  sit 
high 

Is  to  be  lied  about. 

Mary.  They  call  him  cold, 

Haughty,  ay,  worse. 

Renard.  Why,  doubtless,  Philip 
shows 

Some  of  the  bearing  of  your  blue 
blood  — still 

All  within  measure  — nay,  it  well 
becomes  him. 

Mary.  Hath  he  the  large  ability  of 
his  father  ? 

Renard.  Nay,  some  believe  that  he 
will  go  beyond  him. 

Mary.  Is  this  like  him  ? 

Renard.  Ay,  somewhat ; but  your 
Philip 

Is  the  most  princelike  Prince  beneath 
the  sun. 

This  is  a daub  to  Philip. 

Mary.  Of  a pure  life  ? 

Renard.  As  an  angel  among  angels. 
Yea,  by  Heaven, 

The  text  — Your  Highness  knows  it, 
“ Whosoever 

Looketh  after  a woman,”  would  not 
graze 

The  Prince  of  Spain.  You  are  happy 
in  him  there, 

Chaste  as  your  Grace  ! 

Mary.  I am  happy  in  him  there. 

Renard.  And  would  be  altogether 
happy,  Madam, 

So  that  your  sister  were  but  look’d  to 
closer. 


You  have  sent  her  from  the  court,  but 
then  she  goes, 

I warrant,  not  to  hear  the  nightingales, 

But  hatch  you  some  new  treason  in 
the  woods. 

Mary.  We  have  our  spies  abroad 
to  catch  her  tripping, 

And  then  if  caught,  to  the  Tower. 

Renard.  The  Tower ! the  block  ! 

The  word  has  turn’d  your  Highness 
pale ; the  thing 

W as  no  such  scarecrow  in  your  father’s 
time. 

I have  heard,  the  tongue  yet  quiver’d 
with  the  jest 

When  the  head  leapt  — so  common  ! 
I do  think 

To  save  your  crown  that  it  must  come 
to  this. 

Mary.  No,  Renard  ; it  must  never 
come  to  this. 

Renard.  Not  yet ; but  your  old 
Traitors  of  the  Tower  — 

Why,  when  you  put  Northumberland 
to  death, 

The  sentence  having  past  upon  them 
all, 

Spared  you  the  Duke  of  Suffolk, 
Guildford  Dudley, 

Ev’n  that  young  girl  who  dared  to 
wear  your  crown  ? 

Mary.  Dared  ? nay,  not  so ; the 
child  obey’d  her  father. 

Spite  of  her  tears  her  father  forced  it 
on  her. 

Renard.  Good  Madam,  when  the 
Roman  wish’d  to  reign, 

He  slew  not  him  alone  who  wore  the 
purple, 

But  his  assessor  in  the  throne,  per- 
chance 

A child  more  innocent  than  Lady  Jane. 

Mary.  I am  English  Queen,  not 
Roman  Emperor. 

Renard.  Yet  too  much  mercy  is  a 
want  of  mercy, 

And  wastes  more  life.  Stamp  out  the 
fire,  or  this 

Will  smoulder  and  re-flame,  and  burn 
the  throne 

Where  you  should  sit  with  Philip  .•  he 
will  not  come 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Till  she  be  gone. 

Mary.  Indeed,  if  that  were  true  — 

For  Philip  comes,  one  hand  in  mine, 
and  one 

Steadying  the  tremulous  pillars  of  the 
Church  — 

But  no,  no,  no.  Farewell.  I am 
somewhat  faint 

With  our  long  talk.  Tho’  Queen,  I 
am  not  Queen 

Of  mine  own  heart,  which  every  now 
and  then 

Beats  me  half  dead : yet  stay,  this 
golden  chain  — 

My  father  on  a birthday  gave  it  me, 

And  I have  broken  with  my  father  — 
take 

And  wear  it  as  a memorial  of  a morn- 
ing 

Which  found  me  full  of  foolish  doubts, 
and  leaves  me 

As  hopeful. 

Renard  (aside).  Whew  — the  folly  of 
all  follies 

Is  to  be  love-sick  for  a shadow. 
(Aloud)  Madam, 

This  chains  me  to  your  service,  not 
with  gold, 

But  dearest  links  of  love.  Farewell, 
and  trust  me, 

Philip  is  yours.  [Exit. 

Mary.  Mine  — but  not  yet  all  mine. 

Enter  Ushek. 

Usher.  Your  Council  is  in  Session, 
please  your  Majesty. 

Mary.  Sir,  let  them  sit.  I must 
have  time  to  breathe. 

No,  say  I come.  (Exit  Usher.)  1 
won  by  boldness  once. 

The  Emperor  counsell’d  me  to  fly  to 
Flanders. 

I would  not ; but  a hundred  miles  I 
rode, 

Sent  out  my  letters,  call’d  my  friends 
together, 

Struck  home  and  won. 

And  when  the  Council  would  not 
crown  me  — thought 

To  bind  me  first  by  oaths  I could  not 
keep. 


And  keep  with  Christ  and  conscience 
— was  it  boldness 

Or  weakness  that  won  there  ? when  I, 
their  Queen, 

Cast  myself  down  upon  my  knees 
before  them, 

And  those  hard  men  brake  into  woman 
tears, 

Ev’n  Gardiner,  all  amazed,  and  in  that 
passion 

Gave  me  my  Crown. 

Enter  Alice. 

Girl ; hast  thou  ever  heard 

Slanders  against  Prince  Philip  in  our 
Court  ? 

Alice.  What  slanders  ? I,  your 
Grace ; no,  never. 

Mary.  Nothing? 

Alice.  Never,  your  Grace. 

Mary.  See  that  you  neither  hear 
them  nor  repeat ! 

Alice  (aside).  Good  Lord!  but  I 
have  heard  a thousand  such. 

Ay,  and  repeated  them  as  often  — 
mum  ! 

Why  comes  that  old  fox-Fleining  back 
again  ? 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard.  Madam,  I scarce  had  left 
your  Grace’s  presence 

Before  I chanced  upon  the  messenger 

Who  brings  that  letter  which  we 
waited  for  — 

The  formal  offer  of  Prince  Philip’s 
hand. 

It  craves  an  instant  answer,  Ay  or 
No. 

Mary.  An  instant  Ay  or  No ! the 
Council  sits. 

Give  it  me  quick. 

Alice  (stepping  before  her).  Your 
Highness  is  all  trembling. 

Mary.  Make  way. 

\_Exit  into  the  Council  Chamber. 

Alice.  O,  Master  Renard,  Master 
Renard, 

If  you  have  falsely  painted  your  fine 
Prince ; 

Praised,  where  you  should  have 
blamed  him,  I pray  God 


QUEEN  MARY, 


541 


No  woman  ever  love  you,  Master 
Renard. 

It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  her  moan 
at  night 

As  tho’  the  nightmare  never  left  her 
bed. 

Renard.  My  pretty  maiden,  tell  me, 
did  you  ever 

Sigh  for  a beard  ? 

Alice.  That’s  not  a pretty  question. 

Renard.  Not  prettily  put  ? I mean, 
my  pretty  maiden, 

A pretty  man  for  such  a pretty 
maiden. 

Alice.  My  Lord  of  Devon  is  a pretty 
man. 

I hate  him.  Well,  but  if  I have,  what 
then  ? 

Renard.  Then,  pretty  maiden,  you 
should  know  that  whether 

A wind  be  warm  or  cold,  it  serves  to 
fan 

A kindled  fire. 

Alice.  According  to  the  song. 

His  friends  would  praise  him,  I believed  ’em, 
His  foes  would  blame  him,  and  1 scorn’d 
’em, 

His  friends  — as  Angels  I received  ’em, 

His  foes  — the  Devil  had  suborn’d  ’em. 

Renard.  Peace,  pretty  maiden. 

I hear  them  stirring  in  the  Council 
Chamber. 

Lord  Paget’s  “Ay”  is  sure  — who 
else  ? and  yet, 

They  are  all  too  much  at  odds  to  close 
at  once 

In  one  full-throated  No ! Her  High- 
ness comes. 


Enter  Mary. 

Alice.  How  deathly  pale ! — a chair, 
your  Highness. 

[ Bringing  one  to  the  Queen. 
Renard.  Madam, 

The  Council  ? 

Mary.  Ay  ! My  Philip  is  all  mine. 
[aSiw&s  into  chair , half  fainting. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  — A llington  Castle. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt.  I do  not  hear 
from  Carew  or  the  Duke 
Of  Suffolk,  and  till  then  I should  not 
move. 

The  Duke  hath  gone  to  Leicester; 
Carew  stirs 

In  Devon  : that  fine  porcelain  Courte- 
nay, 

Save  that  he  fears  he  might  be  crack’d 
in  using, 

(I  have  known  a semi-madman  in  my 
time 

So  fancy-ridd’n)  should  be  in  Devon 
too. 

Enter  William. 

News  abroad,  Williaim  1 

William.  None  so  new,  Sir  Thomas, 
and  none  so  old,  Sir  Thomas.  No 
new  news  that  Philip  comes  to  wed 
Mary,  no  old  news  that  all  men  hate 
it.  Old  Sir  Thomas  would  have  hated 
it.  The  bells  are  ringing  at  Maidstone. 
Doesn’t  your  worship  hear  ? 

Wyatt.  Ay,  for  the  Saints  are  come 
to  reign  again. 

Most  like  it  is  a Saint’s-day.  There’s 
no  call 

As  yet  forme;  so  in  this  pause,  before 
The  mine  be  fired,  it  were  a pious 
work 

To  string  my  father’s  sonnets,  left 
about 

Like  loosely-scatter’d  jewels,  in  fair 
order, 

And  head  them  with  a lamer  rhyme 
of  mine, 

To  grace  his  memory. 

William.  Ay,  why  not,  Sir  Thomas  ? 
He  was  a fine  courtier,  he ; Queen 
Anne  loved  him.  All  the  women 
loved  him.  I loved  him,  I was  in 
Spain  with  him.  I couldn’t  eat  in 
Spain,  I couldn’t  sleep  in  Spain  I 
hate  Spain,  Sir  Thomas. 

W yatt.  But  thou  could’st  drink  in 
Spain  if  I remember. 


5A2 


QUEEN  MARY. 


William.  Sir  Thomas,  we  may  grant 
the  wine.  Old  Sir  Thomas  always 
granted  the  wine. 

Wyatt.  Hand  me  the  casket  with  my 
father’s  sonnets. 

William.  Ay  — sonnets  — a fine 
courtier  of  the  old  Court,  old  Sir 
Thomas.  [ Exit . 

Wyatt.  Courtier  of  many  courts,  he 
loved  the  more 

His  own  gray  towers,  plain  life  and 
letter’d  peace, 

To  read  and  rhyme  in  solitary  fields, 
The  lark  above,  the  nightingale  below, 
And  answer  them  in  song.  The  sire 
begets 

Not  half  his  likeness  in  the  son.  I 
fail 

Where  he  was  fullest : yet  — to  write 
it  down.  [ He  writes. 

Re-enter  William. 

William.  There  is  news,  there  is 
news,  and  no  call  for  sonnet-sorting 
now,  nor  for  sonnet-making  either,  but 
ten  thousand  men  on  Penenden  Heath 
all  calling  after  your  worship,  and 
your  worship’s  name  heard  into  Maid- 
stone market,  and  your  worship  the 
first  man  in  Kent  and  Christendom, 
for  the  Queen’s  down,  and  the  world’s 
up,  and  your  worship  a-top  of  it. 

Wyatt.  Inverted  JEsop  — mountain 
out  of  mouse. 

Say  for  ten  thousand  ten  — and  pot- 
house knaves, 

Brain-dizzied  with  a draught  of  morn- 
ing ale. 

Enter  Antony  Knyvett. 

William.  Here’s  Antony  Knyvett. 

Knyvett.  Look  you,  Master  Wyatt, 
Tear  up  that  woman’s  work  there. 

Wyatt.  No  ; not  these, 

Dumb  children  of  my  father,  that  will 
speak 

When  I and  thou  and  all  rebellions 
lie 

Dead  bodies  without  voice.  Song 
flies  you  know 
For  ages. 


Knyvett.  Tut,  your  sonnet’s  a flying 
ant, 

Wing’d  for  a moment. 

Wyatt.  Well,  for  mine  own  work, 
\_Tearing  the  paper. 

It  lies  there  in  six  pieces  at  your  feet ; 

P'or  all  that  I can  carry  it  in  my  head. 

Knyvett.  If  you  can  carry  your  head 
upon  your  shoulders. 

Wyatt.  I fear  you  come  to  carry  it 
off  my  shoulders, 

And  sonnet-making’s  safer. 

Knyvett.  Why,  good  Lord, 

Write  you  as  many  sonnets  as  you 
will. 

Ay,  but  not  now ; what,  have  you 
eyes,  ears,  brains  ? 

This  Philip  and  the  black-faced 
swarms  of  Spain, 

The  hardest,  cruellest  people  in  the 
world, 

Come  locusting  upon  us,  eat  us  up, 

Confiscate  lands,  goods,  money  — 
Wyatt,  Wyatt, 

Wake,  or  the  stout  old  island  will 
become 

A rotten  limb  of  Spain.  They  roar 
for  you 

On  Penenden  Heath,  a thousand  of 
them  — more  — ■ 

All  arm’d,  waiting  a leader;  there’s 
no  glory 

Like  his  who  saves  his  country : and 
you  sit 

Sing-songing  here ; but,  if  I’m  any 
judge, 

By  God,  you  are  as  poor  a poet, 
Wyatt, 

Asa  good  soldier. 

Wyatt.  You  as  poor  a critic 

As  an  honest  friend:  you  stroke  me 
on  one  cheek, 

Buffet  the  other.  Come,  you  bluster, 
Antony  ! 

You  know  I know  all  this.  I must 
not  move 

Until  I hear  from  Carew  and  the  Duke. 

I fear  the  mine  is  fired  before  the 
time. 

Knyvett  ( shoiving  a paper).  But 
here’s  some  Hebrew.  Faith,  I 
half  forgot  it. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


543 


Look  ; can  you  make  it  English  ? A 
strange  youth 

Suddenly  thrust  it  on  me,  whisper’d, 
“ Wyatt,” 

And  whisking  round  a corner,  show’d 
his  back 

Before  I read  his  face. 

Wyatt.  Ha  ! Courtenay’s  cipher. 

[Reads. 

“ Sir  Peter  Carew  fled  to  France  : it 
is  thought  the  Duke  will  be  taken, 
i am  with  you  still ; but,  for  appear- 
ance sake,  stay  with  the  Queen.  Gar- 
diner knows,  but  the  Council  are  all  at 
odds,  and  the  Queen  hath  no  force  for 
resistance.  Move,  if  you  move,  at 
once.” 

Is  Peter  Carew  fled  ? Is  the  Duke 
taken  ? 

Down  scabbard,  and  out  sword ! and 
let  Bebellion 

Roar  till  throne  rock,  and  crown  fall. 
No ; not  that ; 

But  we  will  teach  Queen  Mary  how  to 
reign. 

Who  are  those  that  shout  below  there  ? 

Knyvett.  Why,  some  fifty 

That  follow’d  me  from  Penenden 
Heath  in  hope 
To  hear  you  speak. 

Wyatt.  Open  the  window,  Knyvett ; 
The  mine  is  fired,  and  I will  speak  to 
them. 

Men  of  Kent ; England  of  England  ; 
you  that  have  kept  your  old  customs 
upright,  while  all  the  rest  of  England 
bow’d  theirs  to  the  Norman,  the  cause 
that  hath  brought  us  together  is  not 
the  cause  of  a county  or  a shire,  but 
of  this  England,  in  whose  crown  our 
Kent  is  the  fairest  jewel.  Philip  shall 
not  wed  Mary ; and  ye  have  called  me 
to  be  your  leader.  I know  Spain.  I 
have  been  there  with  my  father;  I 
have  seen  them  in  their  own  land  ; 
have  marked  the  haughtiness  of  their 
nobles ; the  cruelty  of  their  priests. 
If  this  man  marry  our  Queen,  however 
the  Council  and  the  Commons  may 
fence  round  his  power  with  restriction, 


he  will  be  King,  King  of  England,  my 
masters  ; and  the  Queen,  and  the  laws, 
and  the  people,  his  slaves.  What  ? 
shall  we  have  Spain  on  the  throne  and 
in  the  parliament;  Spain  in  the  pulpit 
and  on  the  law-bench  ; Spain  in  all  the 
great  offices  of  state ; Spain  in  our 
ships,  in  our  forts,  in  our  houses,  in 
our  beds  ? 

Crowd.  No  ! no ! no  Spain ! 

William.  No  Spain  in  our  beds  — 
that  were  worse  than  all.  I have  been 
there  with  old  Sir  Thomas,  and  the 
beds  I know.  I hate  Spain. 

A Peasant.  But,SirThomas,mustwe 
levy  war  against  the  Queen’s  Grace  1 

Wyatt.  No,  my  friend ; war  for  the 
Queen’s  Grace  — to  save  her  from  her- 
self and  Philip  — war  against  Spain. 
And  think  not  we  shall  be  alone  — 
thousands  will  flock  to  us.  The 
Council, the  Court  itself,  is  on  our  side. 
The  Lord  Chancellor  himself  is  on  our 
side.  The  King  of  France  is  with  us  ; 
the  King  of  Denmark  is  with  us  ; the 
world  is  with  us  — war  against  Spain  ! 
And  if  we  move  not  now,  yet  it  will  be 
known  that  we  have  moved ; and  if 
Philip  come  to  be  King,  O,  my  God  ! 
the  rope,  the  rack,  the  thumbscrew, 
the  stake,  the  fire.  If  we  move  not 
now,  Spain  moves,  bribes  our  nobles 
with  her  gold,  and  creeps,  creeps 
snake-like  about  our  legs  till  we  can- 
not move  at  all;  and  ye  know,  my 
masters,  that  wherever  Spain  hath 
ruled  she  hath  wither’d  all  beneath 
her.  Look  at  the  New  World — a 
paradise  made  hell ; the  red  man,  that 
good  helpless  creature,  starved, 
maim’d,  flogg’d,  flay’d,  burn’d,  boil’d, 
buried  alive,  worried  by  dogs ; and 
here,  nearer  home,  the  Netherlands, 
Sicily,  Naples,  Lombardy.  I say  no 
more  — only  this,  their  lot  is  yours. 
Forward  to  London  with  me  ! forward 
to  London  ! If  ye  love  your  liberties 
or  your  skins,  forward  to  London ! 

Crowd.  Forward  to  London ! A 
Wyatt!  a Wyatt ! 

Wyatt.  But  first  to  Rochester,  to 
take  the  guns 


5-44 


QUEEN  MARY. 


From  out  the  vessels  lying  in  the 
river. 

Then  on. 

A Peasant.  Ay,  but  I fear  we  be  too 
few,  Sir  Thomas. 

Wyatt.  Not  many  yet.  The  world 
as  yet,  my  friend, 

Is  not  half-waked;  but  every  parish 
tower 

Shall  clang  and  clash  alarum  as  we 
pass, 

And  pour  along  the  land,  and  swoll’n 
and  fed 

With  indraughts  and  side-currents,  in 
full  force 

Roll  upon  London. 

Crowd.  A Wyatt!  a Wyatt!  For- 
ward ! 

Knyvett , Wyatt,  shall  we  proclaim 
Elizabeth  ? 

Wyatt.  I’ll  think  upon  it,  Knyvett. 

Knyvett.  Or  Lady  Jane  1 

Wyatt.  No,  poor  soul ; no. 

Ah,  gray  old  castle  of  Allington,  green 
field 

Beside  the  brimming  Medway,  it  may 
chance 

That  I shall  never  look  upon  you 
more. 

Knyvett.  Come,  now,  you’re  sonnet- 
ting  again. 

Wyatt.  Not  I. 

I’ll  have  my  head  set  higher  in  the 
state ; 

Or  — if  the  Lord  God  will  it  — on  the 
stake.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — Guildhall. 

Sir  Thomas  White  (The  Lord 

Mayor),  Lord  William  Howard, 

Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall,  Alder- 
men and  Citizens. 

White.  I trust  the  Queen  comes 
hither  with  her  guards. 

Howard.  Ay,  all  in  arms. 

[ Several  of  the  citizens  move  hastily 
out  of  the  hall. 

Why  do  they  hurry  out  there  1 

White.  My  Lord,  cut  out  the  rotten 
from  your  apple, 


Your  apple  eats  the  better.  Let  them 
go. 

They  go  like  those  old  Pharisees  in 
John 

Convicted  by  their  conscience,  arrant 
cowards, 

Or  tamperers  with  that  treason  out  of 
Kent. 

When  will  her  Grace  be  here  1 

Howard.  In  some  few  minutes. 

She  will  address  your  guilds  and  com- 
panies. 

I have  striven  in  vain  to  raise  a man 
for  her. 

But  help  her  in  this  exigency,  make 

Your  city  loyal,  and  be  the  mightiest 
man 

This  day  in  England. 

White.  I am  Thomas  White. 

Few  things  have  fail’d  to  which  I set 
my  will. 

I do  my  most  and  best. 

Howard.  You  know  that  after 

The  Captain  Brett,  who  went  with 
your  train  bands 

To  fight  with  Wyatt,  had  gone  over 
to  him 

With  all  his  men,  the  Queen  in  that 
distress 

Sent  Cornwallis  and  Hastings  to  the 
traitor, 

Feigning  to  treat  with  him  about  her 
marriage  — 

Know  too  what  Wyatt  said. 

White.  He’d  sooner  be, 

While  this  same  marriage  question 
was  being  argued, 

Trusted  than  trust  — the  scoundrel  — 
and  demanded 

Possession  of  her  person  and  the 
Tower. 

Howard.  And  four  of  her  poor 
Council  too,  my  Lord, 

As  hostages. 

White.  I know  it.  What  do  and 
say 

Your  Council  at  this  hour  ? 

Howard.  I will  trust  you. 

We  fling  ourselves  on  you,  my  Lord. 
The  Council, 

The  Parliament  as  well,  are  troubled 
waters  ; 


QUEEN  MARY. 


545 


And  yet  like  waters  of  the  fen  they 
know  not 

Which  way  to  flow.  All  hangs  on  her 
address, 

And  upon  you,  Lord  Mayor. 

White.  How  look’d  the  city 

When  now  you  past  it  ? Quiet  ? 

Howard.  Like  our  Council, 

Your  city  is  divided.  As  we  past, 

Some  hail’d,  some  hiss’d  us.  There 
were  citizens 

Stood  each  before  his  shut-up  booth, 
and  look’d 

As  grim  and  grave  as  from  a funeral. 

And  here  a knot  of  ruffians  all  in 
rags, 

With  execrating  execrable  eyes, 

Glared  at  the  citizen.  Here  was  a 
young  mother, 

Her  face  on  flame,  her  red  hair  all 
blown  back, 

She  shrilling  “ Wyatt,”  while  the  boy 
she  held 

Mimick’d  and  piped  her  “ Wyatt,”  as 
red  as  she 

In  hair  and  cheek ; and  almost  elbow- 
ing her, 

So  close  they  stood,  another,  mute  as 
death, 

And  white  as  her  own  milk ; her  babe 
in  arms 

Had  felt  the  faltering  of  his  mother’s 
heart, 

And  look’d  as  bloodless.  Here  a pious 
Catholic, 

Mumbling  and  mixing  up  in  his  scared 
prayers 

Heaven  and  earth’s  Maries  ; over  his 
bow’d  shoulder 

Scowl’d  that  world-hated  and  world- 
hating  beast, 

A haggard  Anabaptist.  Many  such 
groups. 

The  names  of  Wyatt,  Elizabeth, 
Courtenay, 

Nay  the  Queen’s  right  to  reign — ’fore 
God,  the  rogues  — 

Were  freely  buzzed  among  them.  So 
I say 

Your  city  is  divided,  and  I fear 

One  scruple,  this  or  that  way,  of  suc- 
cess 


Would  turn  it  thither.  Wherefore 
now  the  Queen 

In  this  low  pulse  and  palsy  of  the 
state, 

Bade  me  to  tell  you  that  she  counts  on 
you 

And  on  myself  as  her  two  hands;  on 
you, 

In  your  own  city,  as  her  right,  my 
Lord, 

For  you  are  loyal. 

White.  Am  I Thomas  White  ? 

One  word  before  she  comes.  Eliza- 
beth — 

Her  name  is  much  abused  among 
these  traitors. 

Where  is  she  1 She  is  loved  by  all 
of  us. 

I scarce  have  heart  to  mingle  in  this 
matter, 

If  she  should  be  mishandled. 

Howard.  No  ; she  shall  not. 

The  Queen  had  written  her  word  to 
come  to  court : 

Methought  I smelt  out  Renard  in  the 
letter, 

And  fearing  for  her,  sent  a secret  mis- 
sive, 

Which  told  her  to  be  sick.  Happily 
or  not, 

It  found  her  sick  indeed. 

White.  God  send  her  well  ; 

Here  comes  her  Royal  Grace. 

Enter  Guards,  Mary,  and  Gardiner. 
Sir  Thomas  White  leads  her  to  a 
raised  seat  on  the  da'is. 

White.  I,  the  Lord  Mayor,  and 
these  our  companies 

And  guilds  of  London,  gathered  here, 
beseech 

Your  Highness  to  accept  our  lowliest 
thanks 

Eor  your  most  princely  presence ; and 
we  pray 

That  we,  your  true  and  loyal  citizens, 

From  your  own  royal  lips,  at  once 
may  know 

The  wherefore  of  this  coming,  and  so 
learn 

Your  royal  will,  and  do  it.  — I,  Lord 
Mayor 


546 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Of  London,  and  our  guilds  and  com- 
panies. 

Mary.  In  mine  own  person  am  I 
come  to  you, 

To  tell  you  what  indeed  ye  see  and 
know, 

How  traitorously  these  rebels  out  of 
Kent 

Have  made  strong  head  against  our- 
selves and  you. 

They  would  not  have  me  wed  the 
Prince  of  Spain ; 

That  was  their  pretext  — so  they 
spake  at  first  — 

But  we  sent  divers  of  our  Council  to 
them, 

And  by  their  answers  to  the  question 
ask’d, 

It  doth  appear  this  marriage  is  the 
least 

Of  all  their  quarrel. 

They  have  betrayed  the  treason  of 
their  hearts  : 

Seek  to  possess  our  person,  hold  our 
Tower, 

Place  and  displace  our  councillors, and 
use 

Both  us  and  them  according  as  they 
will. 

Now  what  I am  ye  know  right  well  — 
your  Queen; 

To  whom,  when  I was  wedded  to  the 
realm 

And  the  realm’s  laws  (the  spousal 
ring  whereof, 

Not  ever  to  be  laid  aside,  I wear 

Upon  this  finger),  ye  did  promise 
full 

Allegiance  and  obedience  to  the  death. 

Ye  know  my  father  was  the  rightful 
heir 

Of  England,  and  his  right  came  down 
to  me, 

Corroborate  by  your  acts  of  Parlia- 
ment : 

And  as  ye  were  most  loving  unto  him, 

So  doubtless  will  ye  show  yourselves 
to  me. 

Wherefore,  ye  will  not  brook  that 
anyone 

Should  seize  our  person,  occupy  our 
state, 


More  specially  a traitor  so  presumptu- 
ous 

As  this  same  Wyatt,  who  hath  tam- 
per’d with 

A public  ignorance,  and,  under  color 
Of  such  a cause  as  hath  no  color,  seeks 
To  bend  the  laws  to  his  own  will,  and 
yield 

Pull  scope  to  persons  rascal  and  for- 
lorn, 

To  make  free  spoil  and  havock  of 
your  goods. 

Now  as  your  Prince,  I say, 

I,  that  was  never  mother,  cannot  tell 
How  mothers  love  their  children ; yet, 
methinks, 

A prince  as  naturally  may  love  his 
people 

As  these  their  children  ; and  be  sure 
your  Queen 

So  loves  you,  and  so  loving,  needs 
must  deem 

This  love  by  you  return’d  as  heartily ; 
And  thro’  this  common  knot  and  bond 
of  love, 

Doubt  not  they  will  be  speedily  over- 
thrown. 

As  to  this  marriage,  ye  shall  under- 
stand 

W e made  thereto  no  treaty  of  ourselves, 
And  set  no  foot  theretoward  unadvised 
Of  all  our  Privy  Council;  furthermore. 
This  marriage  had  the  assent  of  those 
to  whom 

The  king,  my  father,  did  commit  his 
trust ; 

Who  not  alone  esteem’d  it  honorable, 
But  for  the  wealth  and  glory  of  our 
realm, 

And  all  our  loving  subjects,  most  ex- 
pedient. 

As  to  myself, 

I am  not  so  set  on  wedlock  as  to  choose 
But  where  I list,  nor  yet  so  amorous 
That  I must  needs  be  husbanded ; I 
thank  God, 

I have  lived  a virgin,  and  I noway  doubt 
But  that  with  God’s  grace,  I can  live 
so  still. 

Yet  if  it  might  please  God  that  I 
should  leave 

Some  fruit  of  mine  own  body  after  me, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


547 


To  be  your  king,  ye  would  rejoice 
thereat, 

And  it  would  be  your  comfort,  as  I 
trust ; 

And  truly,  if  I either  thought  or  knew 

This  marriage  should  bring  loss  or 
danger  to  you, 

My  subjects,  or  impair  in  any  way 

This  royal  state  of  England,  I would 
never 

Consent  thereto,  nor  marry  while  I live: 

Moreover,  if  this  marriage  should  not 
seem, 

Before  our  own  High  Court  of  Parlia- 
ment, 

To  be  of  rich  advantage  to  our  realm, 

We  will  refrain,  and  not  alone  from 
this, 

Likewise  from  any  other,  out  of  which 

Looms  the  least  chance  of  peril  to  our 
realm. 

Wherefore  be  bold,  and  with  your  law- 
ful Prince 

Stand  fast  against  our  enemies  and 
yours, 

And  fear  them  not.  I fear  them  not. 
My  Lord, 

I leave  Lord  William  Howard  in  your 
city, 

To  guard  and  keep  you  whole  and 
safe  from  all 

The  spoil  and  sackage  aim’d  at  by 
these  rebels, 

Who  mouth  and  foam  against  the 
Prince' of  Spain. 

Voices.  Long  live  Queen  Mary ! 

Down  with  Wyatt ! 

The  Queen  ! 

White.  Three  voices  from  our  guilds 
and  companies ! 

You  are  shy  and  proud  like  English- 
men, my  masters, 

And  will  not  trust  your  voices.  Under- 
stand : 

Your  lawful  Prince  hath  come  to  cast 
herself 

On  loyal  hearts  and  bosoms,  hoped  to 
fall 

Into  the  wide-spread  arms  of  fealty, 

And  finds  you  statues.  Speak  at  once 
— and  all ! 

For  whom  ? 


Our  sovereign  Lady  by  King  Harry’s 
will ; 

The  Queen  of  England  — or  the  Kent- 
ish Squire  ? 

I know  you  loyal.  Speak ! in  the 
name  of  God  ! 

The  Queen  of  England  or  the  rabble 
of  Kent  ? 

The  reeking  dungfork  master  of  the 
mace ! 

Your  havings  wasted  by  the  scythe 
and  spade  — 

Your  rights  and  charters  hobnail’d 
into  slush  — 

Your  houses  fired  — your  gutters 
bubbling  blood 

Acclamation.  No  ! No  ! The  Queen  ! 
the  Queen ! 

White.  Your  Highness  hears 

This  burst  and  bass  of  loyal  harmony, 

And  how  we  each  and  all  of  us  abhor 

The  venomous,  bestial,  devilish  revolt 

Of  Thomas  Wyatt.  Hear  us  now 
make  oath 

To  raise  your  Highness  thirty  thou- 
sand men, 

And  arm  and  strike  as  with  one  hand, 
and  brush 

This  Wyatt  from  our  shoulders,  like 
a flea 

That  might  have  leapt  upon  us  un- 
awares. 

Swear  with  me,  noble  fellow-citizens, 
all, 

With  all  your  trades,  and  guilds,  and 
companies. 

Citizens.  We  swear! 

Mary.  We  thank  your  Lordship  and 
your  loyal  city. 

{Exit  Mary  attended. 

White.  I trust  this  day,  thro’  God, 
I have  saved  the  crown. 

First  Alderman.  Ay,  so  my  Lord 
of  Pembroke  in  command 

Of  all  her  force  be  safe  ; but  there  are 
doubts. 

Second  Alderman.  I hear  that  Gar- 
diner, coming  with  the  Queen, 

And  meeting  Pembroke,  bent  to  his 
saddle-bow, 

As  if  to  win  the  man  by  flattering  him. 

Is  he  so  safe  to  fight  upon  her  side  1 


548 


QUEEN  MaRY. 


First  Alderman.  If  not,  there’s  no 
man  safe. 

White.  Yes,  Thomas  White. 

I am  safe  enough ; no  man  need  flat- 
ter me. 

Second  Alderman.  Nay,  no  man 
need;  but  did  you  mark  our 
Queen  ? 

The  color  freely  play’d  into  her 
face, 

And  the  half  sight  which  makes  her 
look  so  stern, 

Seem’d  thro’  that  dim  dilated  world 
of  hers, 

To  read  our  faces  ; I have  never  seen 
her 

So  queenly  or  so  goodly. 

White.  Courage,  sir, 

That  makes  or  man  or  woman  look 
their  goodliest. 

Die  like  the  torn  fox  dumb,  but  never 
whine 

Like  that  poor  heart,  Northumberland, 
at  the  block. 

Bagenliall.  The  man  had  children, 
and  he  whined  for  those. 

Methinks  most  men  are  but  poor- 
hearted,  else 

Should  we  so  dote  on  courage,  were 
it  commoner  ? 

The  Queen  stands  up,  and  speaks  for 
her  own  self ; 

And  all  men  cry,  She  is  queenly,  she 
is  goodly. 

Yet  she’s  no  goodlier ; tho’  my  Lord 
Mayor  here, 

By  his  own  rule,  he  hath  been  so  bold 
to-day, 

Should  look  more  goodly  than  the 
rest  of  us. 

White.  Goodly  ? I feel  most  good- 
ly heart  and  hand, 

And  strong  to  throw  ten  Wyatts  and 
all  Kent. 

Ha ! ha  ! sir  ; but  you  jest ; I love  it : 
a jest 

In  time  of  danger  shows  the  pulses 
even. 

Be  merry ! yet,  Sir  Ralph,  you  look 
but  sad. 

I dare  avouch  you’d  stand  up  for 
yourself, 


Tho’  all  the  world  should  bay  like 
winter  wolves. 

Bagenhall.  Who  knows  1 the  man 
is  proven  by  the  hour. 

White.  The  man  should  make  the 
hour,  not  this  the  man  ; 

And  Thomas  White  will  prove  this 
Thomas  Wyatt, 

And  he  will  prove  an  Iden  to  this 
Cade, 

And  he  will  play  the  Walworth  to 
this  Wat ; 

Come,  sirs,  we  prate ; hence  all  — 
gather  your  men  — 

Myself  must  bustle.  Wyatt  comes 
to  Southwark ; 

I’ll  have  the  drawbridge  hewn  into 
the  Thames, 

And  see  the  citizens  arm’d.  Good 
day  ; good  day.  [ Exit  White. 

Bagenhall.  One  of  much  outdoor 
bluster. 

Howard.  Tor  all  that, 

Most  honest,  brave,  and  skilful ; and 
his  wealth 

A fountain  of  perennial  alms  — his 
fault 

So  thoroughly  to  believe  in  his  own 
self. 

Bagenhall.  Yet  thoroughly  to  be- 
lieve in  one’s  own  self, 

So  one’s  own  self  be  thorough,  were 
to  do 

Great  things,  my  Lord. 

Howard.  It  may  be. 

Bagenhall.  I have  heard 

One  of  your  Council  fleer  and  jeer  at 
him. 

Howard.  The  nursery-cocker’d  child 
will  jeer  at  aught 

That  may  seem  strange  beyond  his 
nursery. 

The  statesman  that  shall  jeer  and  fleer 
at  men, 

Makes  enemies  for  himself  and  for  his 
king ; 

And  if  he  jeer  not  seeing  the  true 
man 

Behind  his  folly,  he  is  thrice  the 
fool ; 

And  if  he  see  the  man  and  still  will 
jeer, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


549 


He  is  child  and  fool,  and  traitor  to  the 
State. 

Who  is  he  % let  me  shun  him. 

Bagenhall.  Nay,  my  Lord, 

He  is  damn’d  enough  already. 

Howard.  I must  set 

The  guard  at  Ludgate.  Fare  you 
well,  Sir  Ralph. 

Bagenhall.  “ Who  knows  ? ” I am  for 
England.  But  who  knows, 

That  know's  the  Queen,  the  Spaniard, 
and  the  Pope, 

Whether  I be  for  Wyatt,  or  the 
Queen  1 [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — London  Bridge. 

Enter  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and 
Brett. 

Wyatt.  Brett,  when  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk  moved  against  us 

Thoucried’st  “ A Wyatt ! ” and  flying 
to  our  side 

Left  his  all  hare,  for  which  I love 
thee,  Brett. 

Have  for  thine  asking  aught  that  I 
can  give, 

For  thro’  thine  help  we  are  come  to 
London  Bridge ; 

But  how  to  cross  it  balks  me.  I fear 
we  cannot. 

Brett.  Nay,  hardly,  save  by  boat, 
swimming,  or  wings. 

Wyatt.  Last  night  I climb’d  into 
the  gate-house,  Brett, 

And  scared  the  gray  old  porter  and 
his  wife. 

And  then  I crept  along  the  gloom  and 
saw 

They  had  hewn  the  drawbridge  down 
into  the  river. 

It  roll’d  as  black  as  death ; and  that 
same  tide 

Which,  coming  with  our  coming, 
seem’d  to  smile 

And  sparkle  like  our  fortune  as  thou 
saidest, 

Ran  sunless  down,  and  moan’d  against 
the  piers. 

But  o’er  the  chasm  I saw  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard 


By  torchlight,  and  his  guard ; four 
guns  gaped  at  me, 

Black,  silent  mouths:  had  Howard 
spied  me  there 

And  made  them  speak,  as  well  he 
might  have  done, 

Their  voice  had  left  me  none  to  tell 
you  this. 

What  shall  we  do  ? 

Brett.  On  somehow.  To  go  back 
Were  to  lose  all. 

Wyatt.  On  over  London  Bridge 
We  cannot:  stay  we  cannot;  there  is 
ordnance 

On  the  White  Tower  and  on  the  Devil’s 
Tower, 

And  pointed  full  at  Southwark ; we 
must  round 
By  Kingston  Bridge. 

Brett.  Ten  miles  about. 

Wyatt.  Ev’n  so. 

But  I have  notice  from  our  partisans 
Within  the  city  that  they  will  stand 
by  us 

If  Ludgate  can  be  reach’d  by  dawn  to- 
morrow. 

Enter  one  of  Wyatt’s  men. 

Man.  Sir  Thomas,  I’ve  found  this 
paper ; pray  your  worship  read  it ; I 
know  not  my  letters ; the  old  priests 
taught  me  nothing. 

Wyatt  (reads).  “Whosoever  will 
apprehend  the  traitor  Thomas  Wyatt 
shall  have  a hundred  pounds  for  re- 
ward.” 

Man.  Is  that  it  ? That’s  a big  lot 
of  money. 

Wyatt.  Ay,  ay,  my  friend;  not  read 
it  1 ’tis  not  written 

Half  plain  enough.  Give  me  a piece 
of  paper ! 

[ Writes  “Thomas  Wyatt”  large. 
There,  any  man  can  read  that. 

[ Sticks  it  in  his  cap. 

Brett.  But  that’s  foolhardy. 

Wyatt.  No ! boldness,  which  will 
give  my  followers  boldness. 

Enter  Man  with  a prisoner. 

Man.  We  found  him,  your  worship, 
a plundering  o’  Bishop  Winchester’s 


550 


QUEEN  MARY. 


house ; he  says  he’s  a poor  gentle- 
man. 

Wyatt.  Gentleman!  a thief!  Go 
hang  him.  Shall  we  make 
Those  that  we  come  to  serve  our 
sharpest  foes  ? 

Brett.  Sir  Thomas  — 

Wyatt.  Hang  him,  I say. 

Brett.  Wyatt,  but  now  you  promised 
me  a boon. 

Wyatt.  Ay,  and  I warrant  this  fine 
fellow’s  life. 

Brett.  Ev’n  so ; he  was  my  neighbor 
once  in  Kent. 

He’s  poor  enough,  has  drunk  and 
gambled  out 

All  that  he  had,  and  gentleman  he 
was. 

We  have  been  glad  together;  let  him 
live. 

Wyatt.  He  has  gambled  for  his 
life,  and  lost,  he  hangs. 

No,  no,  my  word’s  my  word.  Take  thy 
poor  gentleman ! 

Gamble  thyself  at  once  out  of  my 
sight, 

Or  I will  dig  thee  with  my  dagger. 
Away  ! 

Women  and  children! 

Enter  a Crowd  of  Women  and 
Children. 

First  Woman.  0 Sir  Thomas,  Sir 
Thomas,  pray  you  go  away,  Sir 
Thomas,  or  you’ll  make  the  White 
Tower  a black  ’un  for  us  this  blessed 
day.  He’ll  be  the  death  on  us ; 
and  you’ll  set  the  Divil’s  Tower  a- 
spitting,  and  he’ll  smash  all  our  bits 
o’  things  worse  than  Philip  o’  Spain. 

Second  W oman.  Don’t  ye  now  go  to 
think  that  we  be  for  Philip  o’  Spain. 

Third  Woman.  No,  we  know  that 
ye  be  come  to  kill  the  Queen,  and 
we’ll  pray  for  you  all  on  our  bended 
knees.  But  o’  God’s  mercy  don’t  ye 
kill  the  Queen  here,  Sir  Thomas  ; look 
ye,  here’s  little  Dickon,  and  little 
Robin,  and  little  Jenny  — though  she’s 
but  a side-cousin  — and  all  on  our 
knees,  we  pray  you  to  kill  the  Queen 
further  off,  Sir  Thomas. 


W yatt.  My  friends,  I have  not  come 
to  kill  the  Queen 

Or  here  or  there  : I come  to  save  you 
all, 

And  I’ll  go  further  off. 

Crowd.  Thanks,  Sir  Thomas,  we  be 
beholden  to  you,  and  we’ll  pray  for 
you  on  our  bended  knees  till  our  lives’ 
end. 

Wyatt.  Be  happy,  I am  your  friend. 
To  Kingston, forward!  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — Room  in  the  Gate- 
house of  Westminster  Palace. 

Mary,  Alice,  Gardiner,  Renard, 
Ladies. 

Gardiner.  Their  cry  is,  Philip  never 
shall  be  king. 

Mary.  Lord  Pembroke  in  command 
of  all  our  force 

Will  front  their  cry  and  shatter  them 
into  dust. 

Alice.  Was  not  Lord  Pembroke 
with  Northumberland  ? 

O madam,  if  this  Pembroke  should  be 
false  ? 

Mary.  No,  girl ; most  brave  and 
loyal,  brave  and  loyal. 

His  breaking  with  Northumberland 
broke  Northumberland. 

At  the  park  gate  he  hovers  with  our 
guards. 

These  Kentish  ploughmen  cannot 
break  the  guards. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.  Wyatt,  your  Grace,  hath 
broken  thro’  the  guards, 

And  gone  to  Ludgate. 

Gardiner.  Madam,  I much  fear 
That  all  is  lost ; but  we  can  save  your 
Grace. 

The  river  still  is  free.  I do  beseech 
you, 

There  yet  is  time,  take  boat  and  pass 
to  Windsor. 

Mary.  I pass  to  Windsor  and  Hose 
my  crown. 

Gardiner.  Pass,  then,  I pray  your 
Highness,  to  the  Tower. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


551 


Mary.  I shall  but  be  their  prisoner 
in  the  Tower. 

Cries  without.  The  traitor ! treason  ! 
Pembroke ! 

Ladies.  Treason ! treason ! 

Mary.  Peace. 

False  to  Northumberland,  is  he  false 
to  me? 

Bear  witness,  Renard,  that  I live  and 
die 

The  true  and  faithful  bride  of  Philip 
— A sound 

Of  feet  and  voices  thickening  hither 
— blows  — 

Hark,  there  is  battle  at  the  palace 
gates, 

And  I will  out  upon  the  gallery. 

Ladies.  No,  no,  your  Grace ; see 
there  the  arrows  flying. 

Mary.  I am  Harry’s  daughter,  Tu- 
dor, and  not  fear. 

[ Goes  out  on  the  gallery. 

The  guards  are  all  driven  in,  skulk 
into  corners 

Like  rabbits  to  their  holes.  A gra- 
cious guard 

Truly ; shame  on  them ! they  have 
shut  the  gates ! 

Enter  Sir  Robert  Southwell. 

Southwell.  The  porter,  please  your 
Grace,  hath  shut  the  gates 

On  friend  and  foe.  Your  gentlemen- 
at-arms, 

If  this  be  not  your  Grace’s  order,  cry 

To  have  the  gates  set  wide  again,  and 
they 

With  their  good  battleaxes  will  do  you 
right 

Against  all  traitors. 

Mary.  They  are  the  flower  of  Eng- 
land ; set  the  gates  wide. 

[ Exit  Southwell. 

Enter  Courtenay. 

Courtenay.  All  lost,  all  lost,  all 
yielded  ! a barge,  a barge  ! 

The  Queen  must  to  the  Tower. 

Mary.  Whence  come  you,  sir  ? 

Courtenay.  From  Charing  Cross ; 
the  rebels  broke  us  there, 


And  I sped  hither  with  what  haste  I 
might 

To  save  my  royal  cousin. 

Mary.  Where  is  Pembroke  ? 

Courtenay.  I left  him  somewhere  in 
the  thick  of  it. 

Mary.  Left  him  and  fled  ; and  thou 
that  would’st  be  King, 

And  hast  nor  heart  nor  honor.  I my- 
self 

Will  down  into  the  battle  and  there 
bide 

The  upshot  of  my  quarrel,  or  die  with 
those 

That  are  no  cowards  and  no  Courte- 
nays. 

Courtenay.  I do  not  love  your  Grace 
should  call  me  coward. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

Messenger.  Over,  your  Grace,  all 
crush’d;  the  brave  Lord  Wil- 
liam 

Thrust  him  from  Ludgate,  and  the 
traitor  flying 

To  Temple  Bar,  there  by  Sir  Maurice 
Berkeley 

Was  taken  prisoner. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  him  ! 

Messenger.  ’Tis  said  he  told  Sir 
Maurice  there  was  one 

Cognizant  of  this,  and  party  thereunto, 

My  Lord  of  Devon. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  him  ! 

Courtenay.  0 la,  the  Tower,  the 
Tower,  always  the  Tower, 

I shall  grow  into  it  — I shall  be  the 
Tower. 

Mary.  Your  lordship  may  not  have 
so  long  to  wait. 

Remove  him ! 

Courtenay.  La,  to  whistle  out  my 
life, 

And  carve  my  coat  upon  the  walls 
again ! 

{Exit  Courtenay  guarded. 

Messenger.  Also  this  Wyatt  did 
confess  the  Princess 

Cognizant  thereof,  and  party  there- 
unto. 

Mary.  What  ? whom  — whom  did 
you  say  ? 


552 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Messenger.  Elizabeth, 

Your  Royal  sister. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  her  ! 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet  and  I am 
Queen. 

[Gardiner  and  her  Ladies  kneel  to  her. 

Gardiner  (rising).  There  let  them 
lie, your  footstool ! (Aside.)  Can 
I strike 

Elizabeth  ? — not  now  and  save  the 
life 

Of  Devon : if  I save  him,  he  and  his 

Are  bound  to  me  — may  strike  here- 
after. (Aloud.)  Madam, 

What  Wyatt  said,  or  what  they  said 
he  said, 

Cries  of  the  moment  and  the  street  — 

Mary.  He  said  it. 

Gardiner.  Your  courts  of  justice 
will  determine  that. 

Renard  (advancing).  I trust  by  this 
your  Highness  will  allow 

Some  spice  of  wisdom  in  my  telling 
you, 

When  last  we  talk’d,  that  Philip  would 
not  come 

Till  Guildford  Dudley  and  the  Duke  of 
Suffolk, 

And  Lady  Jane  had  left  us. 

Mary.  They  shall  die. 

Renard.  And  your  so  loving  sister  1 

Mary.  She  shall  die. 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet,  and  Philip 
King.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  — The  Conduit  in  Grace- 
church, 

Painted  with  the  Nine  Worthies,  among 
them  King  Henry  VII f.  holding  a 
hook,  on  it  inscribed  “ Verbum  Dei.” 

Enter  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  and  Sir 
Thomas  Stafford. 
Bagenhall.  A hundred  here  and 
hundreds  hang’d  in  Kent. 

The  tigress  had  unsheath’d  her  nails 
at  last. 


And  Renard  and  the  Chancellor  sharp- 
en’d them. 

In  every  London  street  a gibbet 
stood. 

They  are  down  to-day.  Here  by  this 
house  was  one; 

The  traitor  husband  dangled  at  the 
door, 

And  when  the  traitor  wife  came  out 
for  bread 

To  still  the  petty  treason  therewithin, 

Her  cap  would  brush  his  heels. 

Stafford.  It  is  Sir  Ralph, 

And  muttering  to  himself  as  hereto- 
fore. 

Sir,  see  you  aught  up  yonder  ? 

Bagenhall.  I miss  something. 

The  tree  that  only  bears  dead  fruit  is 
gone. 

Stafford.  What  tree,  sir  ? 

Bagenhall.  Well,  the  tree  in 

Virgil,  sir, 

That  bears  not  its  own  apples. 

Stafford.  What ! the  gallows  ? 

Bagenhall.  Sir,  this  dead  fruit  was 
ripening  overmuch, 

And  had  to  be  removed  lest  living 
Spain 

Should  sicken  at  dead  England. 

Stafford.  Not  so  dead, 

But  that  a shock  may  rouse  her. 

Bagenhall.  1 believe 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford  ? 

Stafford.  I am  ill  disguised. 

Bagenhall.  Well,  are  you  not  in 
peril  here  ? 

Stafford.  I think  so. 

I came  to  feel  the  pulse  of  England, 
whether 

It  beats  hard  at  this  marriage.  Did 
you  see  it  ? 

Bagenhall.  Stafford,  I am  a sad  man 
and  a serious. 

Far  liefer  had  I in  my  country  hall 

Been  reading  some  old  book,  with 
mine  old  hound 

Couch’d  at  my  hearth,  and  mine  old 
flask  of  wine 

Beside  me,  than  have  seen  it:  yet  I 
saw  it. 

Stafford.  Good,  was  it  splendid  ? 

Bagenhall.  Ay,  if  Dukes,  and  Earls, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


553 


And  Counts,  and  sixty  Spanish  cava- 
liers, 

Some  six  or  seven  Bishops,  diamonds, 
pearls, 

That  royal  commonplace  too,  cloth 
of  gold, 

Could  make  it  so. 

Stafford.  And  what  was  Mary’s 
dress  ? 

Bagenhall.  Good  faith,  I was  too 
sorry  for  the  woman 

To  mark  the  dress.  She  wore  red 
shoes  ! 

Stafford.  Bed  shoes  ! 

Bagenhall.  Scarlet,  as  if  her  feet 
were  wash’d  in  blood, 

As  if  she  had  waded  in  it. 

Stafford.  Were  your  eyes 

So  bashful  that  you  look’d  no  higher  ? 

Bagenhall.  A diamond, 

And  Philip’s  gift,  as  proof  of  Philip’s 
love, 

Who  hath  not  any  for  any,  — tho’  a 
true  one, 

Blazed  false  upon  her  heart. 

Stafford.  But  this  proud  Prince  — 

Bagenhall.  Nay,  he  is  King,  you 
know,  the  King  of  Naples. 

The  father  ceded  Naples,  that  the  son 

Being  a King,  might  wed  a Queen  — 
O he 

Flamed  in  brocade  — white  satin  his 
trunkhose, 

Inwrought  with  silver,  — on  his  neck 
a collar, 

Gold,  thick  with  diamonds ; hanging 
down  from  this 

The  Golden  Fleece  — and  round  his 
knee,  misplaced, 

Our  English  Garter,  studded  with 
great  emeralds, 

Rubies,  I know  not  what.  Have  you 
had  enough 

Of  all  this  gear  1 

Stafford.  Ay,  since  you  hate  the 
telling  it. 

How  look’d  the  Queen  ? 

Bagenhall.  No  fairer  for  her  jewels. 

And  I could  see  that  as  the  new-made 
couple 

Came  from  the  Minster,  moving  side 
by  side 


Beneath  one  canopy,  ever  and  anon 

She  cast  on  him  a vassal  smile  of 
love, 

Which  Philip  with  a glance  of  some 
distaste, 

Or  so  methought,  return’d.  I may  be 
wrong,  sir. 

This  marriage  will  not  hold. 

Stafford.  I think  with  you. 

The  King  of  France  will  help  to  break 
it. 

Bagenhall.  France ! 

We  once  had  half  of  France,  and 
hurl’d  our  battles 

Into  the  heart  of  Spain ; but  England 
now 

Is  but  a ball  chuck’d  between  France 
and  Spain, 

His  in  whose  hand  she  drops ; Harry 
of  Bolingbroke 

Had  holpen  Richard’s  tottering 
throne  to  stand, 

Could  Harry  have  foreseen  that  all 
our  nobles 

Would  perish  on  the  civil  slaughter- 
field, 

And  leave  the  people  naked  to  the 
crown, 

And  the  crown  naked  to  the  people ; 
the  crown 

Female,  too ! Sir,  no  woman’s  regimen 

Can  save  us.  We  are  fallen,  and  as  I 
think, 

Never  to  rise  again. 

Stafford.  You  are  too  black- 
blooded. 

I’d  make  a move  myself  to  hinder 
that : 

I know  some  lusty  fellows  there  in 
France. 

Bagenhall.  You  would  but  make  us 
weaker,  Thomas  Stafford. 

Wyatt  was  a good  soldier,  yet  he 
fail’d, 

And  strengthen’d  Philip. 

Stafford.  Did  not  his  last  breath 

Clear  Courtenay  and  the  Princess 
from  the  charge 

Of  being  his  co-rebels  1 

Bagenhall.  Ay,  but  then 

What  such  a one  as  Wyatt  says  is 
nothing : 


554 


QUEEN  MARY. 


We  have  no  men  among  us.  The  new 
Lords 

Are  quieted  with  their  sop  of  Abbey- 
lands, 

And  ev’n  before  the  Queen’s  face 
Gardiner  buys  them 

With  Philip’s  gold.  All  greed,  no 
faith,  no  courage ! 

Why,  ev’n  the  haughty  prince,  North- 
umberland, 

The  leader  of  our  Reformation,  knelt 

And  blubber’d  like  a lad,  and  on  the 
scaffold 

Recanted,  and  resold  himself  to  Rome. 

Stafford.  I swear  you  do  your 
country  wrong,  Sir  Ralph, 

I know  a set  of  exiles  over  there, 

Dare-devils,  that  would  eat  fire  and 
spit  it  out 

At  Philip’s  beard  : they  pillage  Spain 
already. 

The  French  King  winks  at  it.  An 
hour  will  come 

When  they  will  sweep  her  from  the 
seas.  No  men  1 

Did  not  Lord  Suffolk  die  like  a true 
man  1 

Is  not  Lord  William  Howard  a true 
man  ? 

Yea,  you  yourself,  altho’  you  are 
black-blooded  : 

And  I,  by  God,  believe  myself  a man. 

Ay,  even  in  the  church  there  is  a 
man  — 

Cranmer. 

Fly  would  he  not,  when  all  men  bade 
him  fly. 

And  what  a letter  he  wrote  against 
the  Pope ! 

There’s  a brave  man,  if  any. 

Bagenhall.  Ay  ; if  it  hold. 

Crowd  ( coming  on).  God  save  their 
Graces ! 

Stafford.  Bagenhall,  I see 

The  Tudor  green  and  white.  ( Trum- 
pets.) They  are  coming  now. 

And  here’s  a crowd  as  thick  as  her- 
ring-shoals. 

Bagenhall.  Be  limpets  to  this  pillar, 
or  we  are  torn 

Down  the  strong  wave  of  brawlers. 

Crowd.  God  save  their  Graces  ! 


[. Procession  of  Trumpeters,  Jave- 
lin-men, etc. ; then  Spanish  and 
Flemish  Nobles  intermingled. 

Stafford.  W orth  seeing,  Bagenhall ! 
These  black  dog-Dons 
Garb  themselves  bravely.  Who’s  the 
long-face  there, 

Looks  very  Spain  of  very  Spain  ? 

Bagenhall.  The  Duke 

Of  Alva,  an  iron  soldier. 

Stafford.  And  the  Dutchman, 

Now  laughing  at  some  jest  ? 

Bagenhall.  William  of  Orange, 

William  the  Silent. 

Stafford.  Why  do  they  call  him  so  ? 

Bagenhall.  He  keeps,  they  say, 
some  secret  that  may  cost 
Philip  his  life. 

Stafford.  But  then  he  looks  so 
merry. 

Bagenhall.  I cannot  tell  you  why 
they  call  him  so. 

\_The  King  and  Queen  pass,  at- 
tended by  Peers  of  the  Realm, 
Officers  of  State,  etc.  Cannon 
shot  off. 

Crowd.  Philip  and  Mary,  Philip 
and  Mary! 

Long  live  the  King  and  Queen,  Philip 
and  Mary ! 

Stafford.  They  smile  as  if  content 
with  one  another. 

Bagenhall.  A smile  abroad  is  oft  a 
scowl  at  home. 

[King  and  Queen  pass  on.  Pro- 
cession. 

First  Citizen.  I thought  this  Philip 
had  been  one  of  those  black  devils  of 
Spain,  but  he  hath  a yellow  beard. 

Second  Citizen.  Not  red  like 
Iscariot’s. 

First  Citizen.  Like  a carrot’s,  as 
thou  say’st;and  English  carrot’s  better 
than  Spanish  licorice;  but  I thought 
he  was  a beast. 

Third  Citizen.  Certain  I had  heard 
that  every  Spaniard  carries  a tail  like 
a devil  under  his  trunk-hose. 

Tailor.  Ay,  but  see  what  trunk- 
hoses  ! Lord  ! they  be  fine ; I never 
stitch’d  none  such.  They  make  amends 
for  the  tails. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


555 


Fourth  Citizen.  Tut ! every  Span- 
ish priest  will  tell  you  that  all  Eng- 
lish heretics  have  tails. 

Fifth  Citizen.  Death  and  the  Devil 
— if  he  find  I have  one  — 

Fourth  Citizen.  Lo  ! thou  hast 
call’d  them  up ! here  they  come  — a 
pale  horse  for  Death  and  Gardiner 
for  the  Devil. 

Enter  Gardiner  ( turning  hack  from 
the  procession). 

Gardiner.  Knave,  wilt  thou  wear 
thy  cap  before  the  Queen  1 

Man.  My  Lord,  I stand  so  squeezed 
among  the  crowd 

I cannot  lift  my  hands  unto  my  head. 

Gardiner.  Knock  off  his  cap  there, 
some  of  you  about  him  ! 

See  there  be  others  that  can  use  their 
hands. 

Thou  art  one  of  Wyatt’s  men  ? 

Man.  No,  my  Lord,  no. 

Gardiner.  Thy  name,  thou  knave  ? 

Man.  I am  nobody,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner  (shouting).  God’s  passion  ! 
knave,  thy  name  ? 

Man.  I have  ears  to  hear. 

Gardiner.  Ay,  rascal,  if  I leave  thee 
ears  to  hear. 

Find  out  his  name  and  bring  it  me  (to 
Attendant). 

Attendant.  Ay,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner.  Knave,  thou  shalt  lose 
thine  ears  and  find  thy  tongue, 
And  shalt  be  thankful  if  I leave  thee 
that.  [Corning before  the  Conduit. 
The  conduit  painted  — the  nine  wor- 
thies — ay ! 

But  then  what’s  here  ? King  Harry 
with  a scroll. 

Ha  — Verbum  Dei  — verbum  — word 
of  God  ! 

God’s  passion  ! do  you  know  the  knave 
that  painted  it  ? 

Attendant.  I do,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner.  Tell  him  to  paint  it  out, 
And  put  some  fresh  device  in  lieu  of 
it  — 

A pair  of  gloves,  a pair  of  gloves,  sir ; 
ha  ? 

There  is  no  heresy  there. 


Attendant.  I will,  my  Lord  ; 

The  man  shall  paint  a pair  of  gloves. 
I am  sure 

(Knowing  the  man)  he  wrought  it 
ignorantly, 

And  not  from  any  malice. 

Gardiner.  Word  of  God 

In  English ! over  this  the  brainless 
loons 

That  cannot  spell  Esaias  from  St. 
Paul, 

Make  themselves  drunk  and  mad,  fly 
out  and  flare 

Into  rebellions.  I’ll  have  their  bibles 
burnt. 

The  bible  is  the  priest’s.  Ay ! fellow, 
what ! 

Stand  staring  at  me  ! shout,  you  gap- 
ing rogue ! 

Man.  I have,  my  Lord,  shouted  till 
I am  hoarse. 

Gardiner.  What  hast  thou  shouted, 
knave  ? 

Man.  Long  live  Queen  Mary ! 

Gardiner.  Knave,  there  be  two. 
There  be  both  King  and  Queen, 

Philip  and  Mary.  Shout ! 

Man.  Nay,  but,  my  Lord, 

The  Queen  comes  first,  Mary  and 
Phiiip. 

Gardiner.  Shout,  then, 

Mary  and  Philip ! 

Man.  Mary  and  Philip  ! 

Gardiner.  Now, 

Thou  hast  shouted  for  thy  pleasure, 
shout  for  mine  ! 

Philip  and  Mary ! 

Man.  Must  it  be  so,  my  Lord  ? 

Gardiner.  Ay,  knave. 

Man.  Philip  and  Mary  ! 

Gardiner.  I distrust  thee. 

Thine  is  a half  voice  and  a lean 
assent. 

What  is  thy  name  ? 

Man.  Sanders. 

Gardiner.  What  else  ? 

Man.  Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner.  Where  dost  thou  live  ? 

Man.  In  Cornhill. 

Gardiner.  Where,  knave,  where  ? 

Man  Sign  of  the  Talbot  . 

Gardiner.  Come  to  me  to-:r>orrow.  — 


556 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Rascal ! this  land  is  like  a hill  of  fire, 

One  crater  opens  when  another  shuts. 

But  so  I get  the  laws  against  the 
heretic, 

Spite  of  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 
Howard, 

And  others  of  our  Parliament,  revived, 

I will  show  fire  on  my  side  — stake 
and  fire  — 

Sharp  work  and  short.  The  knaves 
are  easily  cow’d. 

Follow  their  Majesties. 

[Exit.  The  crowd  following. 

Bagenhall.  As  proud  as  Becket. 

Stafford.  You  would  not  have  him 
murder’d  as  Becket  was  'l 

Bagenhall.  No  — murder  fathers 
murder : but  I say 

There  is  no  man  — there  was  one 
woman  with  us  — 

It  was  a sin  to  love  her  married,  dead 

I cannot  choose  but  love  her. 

Stafford.  Lady  Jane  1 

Crowd  ( going  off).  God  save  their 
Graces ! 

Stafford.  Did  you  see  her  die  ? 

Bagenhall.  No,  no ; her  innocent 
blood  had  blinded  me. 

You  call  me  too  black-blooded — true 
enough 

Her  dark  dead  blood  is  in  my  heart 
with  mine. 

If  ever  I cry  out  against  the  Pope 

Her  dark  dead  blood  that  ever  moves 
with  mine 

Will  stir  the  living  tongue  and  make 
the  cry. 

Stafford.  Yet  doubtless  you  can  tell 
me  how  she  died  ri 

Bagenhall.  Seventeen  — and  knew 
eight  languages  — in  music 

Peerless  — her  needle  perfect,  and  her 
learning 

Beyond  the  churchmen ; yet  so  meek, 
so  modest, 

So  wife-like  humble  to  the  trivial  boy 

Mismatch’d  with  her  for  policy ! I 
have  heard 

She  would  not  take  a last  farewell  of 
him, 

She  fear’d  it  might  unman  him  for  his 


She  could  not  be  unmann’d  — no,  nor 
outwoman’d  — 

Seventeen  — a rose  of  grace  ! 

Girl  never  breathed  to  rival  such 
a rose ; 

Rose  never  blew  that  equall’d  such  a 
bud. 

Stafford.  Pray  you  go  on. 

Bagenhall.  She  came  upon  the  scaf- 
fold, 

And  said  she  was  condemn’d  to  die 
for  treason ; 

She  had  but  follow’d  the  device  of 
those 

Her  nearest  kin : she  thought  they 
knew  the  laws. 

But  for  herself,  she  knew  but  little  law, 

And  nothing  of  the  titles  to  the 
crown  ; 

She  had  no  desire  for  that,  and  wrung 
her  hands, 

And  trusted  God  would  save  her  thro’ 
the  blood 

Of  Jesus  Christ  alone. 

Stafford.  Pray  you  go  on. 

Bagenhall.  Then  knelt  and  said  the 
Miserere  Mei  — 

But  all  in  English,  mark  you;  rose 
again, 

And,  when  the  headsman  pray’d  to  be 
forgiven, 

Said  “You  will  give  me  my  true  crown 
at  last, 

But  do  it  quickly ; ” then  all  wept  but 
she, 

Who  changed  not  color  when  she  saw 
the  block, 

But  ask’d  him,  childlike  : “ Will  you 
take  it  off 

Before  I lay  me  down  ? ” “No, 
madam,”  he  said, 

Gasping  ; and  when  her  innocent  eyes 
were  bound, 

She,  with  her  poor  blind  hands  feel- 
ing — “ where  is  it  ? 

Where  is  it  ? ” — You  must  fancy  that 
which  follow’d, 

If  you  have  heart  to  do  it ! 

Crowd  (in  the  distance).  God  save 
their  Graces ! 

Stafford.  Their  Graces,  our  dis- 
graces ! God  confound  them ! 


QUEEN  MARY. 


557 


Why,  she’s  grown  bloodier!  when  I 
last  was  here, 

This  was  against  her  conscience  — 
would  be  murder ! 

BagenhaJl.  The  “ Thou  shalt  do  no 
murder,”  which  God’s  hand 

Wrote  on  her  conscience,  Mary  rubb’d 
out  pale  — 

She  could  not  make  it  white  — and 
over  that, 

Traced  in  the  blackest  text  of  Hell  — 
“ Thou  shalt ! ” 

And  sign’d  it  — Mary  ! 

Stafford.  Philip  and  the  Pope 

Must  have  sign’d  too.  I hear  this 
Legate’s  coming 

To  bring  us  absolution  from  the  Pope. 

The  Lords  and  Commons  will  bow 
down  before  him  — 

You  are  of  the  house  ? what  will  you 
do,  Sir  Ralph  ? 

BagenhaJl.  And  why  should  I be 
bolder  than  the  rest, 

Or  honester  than  all  1 

Stafford.  But,  sir,  if  I — 

And  oversea  they  say  this  state  of 
yours 

Hath  no  more  mortice  than  a tower  of 
cards; 

And  that  a puff  would  do  it  — then 
if  I 

And  others  made  that  move  I touch’d 
upon, 

Back’d  by  the  power  of  France,  and 
landing  here, 

Came  with  a sudden  splendor,  shout, 
and  show, 

And  dazzled  men  and  deafen’d  by 
some  bright 

Loud  venture,  and  the  people  so  un- 
quiet — 

And  I the  race  of  murder’d  Bucking- 
ham — 

Not  for  myself,  but  for  the  kingdom 
— Sir, 

I trust  that  you  would  fight  along 
with  us. 

BagenhaJl.  No ; you  would  fling 
your  lives  into  the  gulf. 

Stafford.  But  if  this  Philip,  as  he’s 
like  to  do, 

Left  Mary  a wife-widow  here  alone, 


Set  up  a viceroy,  sent  his  myriads 
hither 

To  seize  upon  the  forts  and  fleet,  and 
make  us 

A Spanish  province ; would  you  not 
fight  then  1 

BagenhaJl.  I think  I should  fight 
then. 

Stafford.  I am  sure  of  it. 

Hist ! there’s  the  face  coming  on  here 
of  one 

Who  knows  me.  I must  leave  you. 
Fare  you  well, 

You’ll  hear  of  me  again. 

Bagenhall.  Upon  the  scaffold. 

\Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  — Room  in  Whitehall 
Palace. 

Mary.  Enter  Philip  and 
Cardinal  Pole. 

Pole.  Ave  Maria, gratia  plena, Bene- 
dicta  tu  in  mulieribus. 

Mary.  Loyal  and  royal  cousin, 
humblest  thanks. 

Had  you  a pleasant  voyage  up  the 
river  ? 

Pole.  We  had  your  royal  barge,  and 
that  same  chair, 

Or  rather  throne  of  purple,  on  the  deck. 

Our  silver  cross  sparkled  before  the 
prow, 

The  ripples  twinkled  at  their  diamond- 
dance, 

The  boats  that  follow’d,  were  as  glow- 
ing-gay 

As  regal  gardens  ; and  your  flocks  of 
swans, 

As  fair  and  white  as  angels  ; and  your 
shores 

Wore  in  mine  eyes  the  green  of  Para- 
dise. 

My  foreign  friends,  who  dream’d  us 
blanketed 

In  ever-closing  fog,  were  much  amazed 

To  find  as  fair  a sun  as  might  have 
flash’d 

Upon  their  lake  of  Garda,  fire  the 
Thames ; 

Our  voyage  by  sea  was  all  but  miracle ; 


558 


QUEEN  MARY. 


And  here  the  river  flowing  from  the 
sea, 

Not  toward  it  (for  they  thought  not 
of  our  tides), 

Seem’d  as  a happy  miracle  to  make 
glide  — 

In  quiet  — home  your  banish’d  coun- 
tryman. 

Mary.  We  heard  that  you  were 
sick  in  Flanders,  cousin. 

Pole.  A dizziness. 

Mary.  And  how  came 

you  round  again  7 
Pole.  The  scarlet  thread  of  Rahab 
saved  her  life ; 

And  mine,  a little  letting  of  the  blood. 
Mary.  W ell  7 now  7 
Pole.  Ay,  cousin,  as 

the  heathen  giant 

Had  but  to  touch  the  ground,  his 
force  return’d  — 

Thus,  after  twenty  years  of  banish- 
ment, 

Feeling  my  native  land  beneath  my 
foot, 

I said  thereto:  “Ah,  native  land  of 
mine, 

Thou  art  much  beholden  to  this  foot 
of  mine, 

That  hastes  with  full  commission  from 
the  Pope 

To  absolve  thee  from  thy  guilt  of 
heresy. 

Thou  hast  disgraced  me  and  attainted 
me, 

And  mark’d  me  ev’n  as  Cain,  and  I 
return 

As  Peter,  but  to  bless  thee : make  me 
well.” 

Methinks  the  good  land  heard  me, 
for  to-day 

My  heart  beats  twenty,  when  I see 
you,  cousin. 

Ah,  gentle  cousin,  since  your  Herod’s 
death, 

How  oft  hath  Peter  knock’d  at  Mary’s 
gate ! 

And  Mary  would  have  risen  and  let 
him  in, 

But,  Mary,  there  were  those  within 
the  house 

Who  would  not  have  it. 


Mary.  True,  good  cousin  Pole  ; 

And  there  were  also  those  without  the 
house 

Who  would  not  have  it. 

Pole.  I believe  so,  cousin. 

State-policy  and  church-policy  are 
conjoint, 

But  Janus-faces  looking  diverse  ways. 
I fear  the  Emperor  much  misvalued 
me. 

But  all  is  well ; ’twas  ev’n  the  will  of 
God, 

Who,  waiting  till  the  time  had  ripen’d, 
now, 

Makes  me  his  mouth  of  holy  greet- 
ing. “ Hail, 

Daughter  of  God,  and  saver  of  the 
faith, 

Sit  benedictus  fructus  ventris  tui!  ” 

Mary.  Ah,  heaven ! 

Pole.  Unwell,  your  Grace  7 

Mary.  No,  cousin,  happy  — 

Happy  to  see  you  ; never  yet  so  happy 
Since  I was  crown’d. 

Pole.  Sweet  cousin,  you  forget 

That  long  low  minster  where  you 
gave  your  hand 
To  this  great  Catholic  King. 

Philip.  Well  said,  Lord  Legate. 

Mary.  Nay,  not  well  said ; I thought 
of  you  my  liege, 

Ev’n  as  I spoke. 

Philip.  Ay,  Madam;  my  Lord  Paget 
Waits  to  present  our  Council  to  the 
Legate. 

Sit  down  here,  all ; Madam,  between 
us  you. 

Pole.  Lo,  now  you  are  enclosed 
with  boards  of  cedar, 

Our  little  sister  of  the  Song  of  Songs ! 
You  are  doubly  fenced  and  shielded 
sitting  here 

Between  the  two  most  high-set  thrones 
on  earth, 

The  Emperor’s  highness  happily  sym- 
boll’d  by 

The  King  your  husband,  the  Pope’s 
Holiness 

By  mine  own  self. 

Mary.  True,  cousin,  I am  happy. 
When  will  you  that  we  summon  both 
our  houses 


QUEEN  MARY. 


559 


To  take  this  absolution  from  your  lips, 

And  be  regather’d  to  the  Papal  fold  ? 

Pole.  In  Britain’s  calendar  the 
brightest  day 

Beheld  our  rough  forefathers  break 
their  Gods, 

And  clasp  the  faith  in  Christ ; but 
after  that 

Might  not  St.  Andrew’s  be  her  hap- 
piest day  ? 

Mary.  Then  these  shall  meet  upon 
St.  Andrew’s  day. 

Enter  Paget,  who  presents  the  Council. 

Dumb  show. 

Pole.  I am  an  old  man  wearied  with 
my  journey, 

Ev’n  with  my  joy.  Permit  me  to  with- 
draw. 

To  Lambeth  ? 

Philip.  Ay,  Lambeth  has  ousted 
Cranmer. 

It  was  not  meet  the  heretic  swine 
should  live 

In  Lambeth. 

Mary.  There  or  anywhere,  or  at  all. 

Philip.  We  have  had  it  swept  and 
garnish’d  after  him. 

Pole.  Not  for  the  seven  devils  to 
enter  in  1 

Philip.  No,  for  we  trust  they  parted 
in  the  swine. 

Pole.  True,  and  I am  the  Angel  of 
the  Pope. 

Farewell,  your  Graces. 

Philip.  Nay,  not  here  — to  me ; 

I will  go  with  you  to  the  waterside. 

Pole.  Not  be  my  Charon  to  the 
counter  side  ? 

Philip.  No,  my  Lord  Legate,  the 
Lord  Chancellor  goes. 

Pole.  And  unto  no  dead  world ; but 
Lambeth  palace, 

Henceforth  a centre  of  the  living  faith. 
[ Exeunt  Philip,  Pole,  Paget,  etc. 

Manet  Mary. 

Mary.  He  hath  awaked!  he  hath 
awaked ! 

He  stirs  within  the  darkness  ! 


Oh,  Philip,  husband ! now  thy  love  to 
mine 

Will  cling  more  close,  and  those  bleak 
manners  thaw, 

That  make  me  shamed  and  tongue- 
tied  in  my  love. 

The  second  Prince  of  Peace  — 

The  great  unborn  defender  of  the 
Faith, 

Who  will  avenge  me  of  mine  ene- 
mies — 

He  comes,  and  my  star  rises. 

The  stormy  Wyatts  and  Northumber- 
lands, 

The  proud  ambitions  of  Elizabeth, 

And  all  her  fieriest  partisans  — are 
pale 

Before  my  star! 

The  light  of  this  new  learning  wanes 
and  dies : 

The  ghosts  of  Luther  and  Zuinglius 
fade 

Into  the  deathless  hell  which  is  their 
doom 

Before  my  star ! 

His  sceptre  shall  go  forth  from  Ind 
to  Ind  ! 

His  sword  shall  hew  the  heretic  peo- 
ples down ! 

His  faith  shall  clothe  the  world  that 
will  be  his, 

Like  universal  air  and  sunshine ! Open, 

Ye  everlasting  gates ! The  King  is 
here ! — 

My  star,  my  son ! 

Enter  Philip,  Duke  of  Alva,  etc. 

Oh,  Philip,  come  with  me ; 

Good  news  have  I to  tell  you,  news  to 
make 

Both  of  us  happy  — ay,  the  Kingdom 
too. 

Nay  come  with  me  — one  moment ! 

Philip  ( to  Alva).  More  than  that  : 

There  was  one  here  of  late  — William 
the  Silent 

They  call  him  — he  is  free  enough  in 
talk, 

But  tells  me  nothing.  You  will  be, 
we  trust, 

Sometime  the  viceroy  of  those 
provinces  — 


560 


QUEEN  MARY. 


He  must  deserve  his  surname  better. 

Alva.  Ay,  sir ; 

Inherit  the  Great  Silence. 

Philip.  True ; the  provinces 

Are  hard  to  rule  and  must  be  hardly 
ruled ; 

Most  fruitful,  yet,  indeed,  an  empty 
rind, 

All  hollow’d  out  with  stinging  heresies ; 

And  for  their  heresies,  Alva,  they  will 
fight ; 

You  must  break  them  or  they  break 
you. 

Alva  {proudly).  The  first. 

Philip.  Good ! 

Well,  Madam,  this  new  happiness  of 
mine  'i  [ Exeunt . 

Enter  Three  Pages. 

First  Page.  News,  mates ! a miracle, 
a miracle  ! news  ! 

The  bell  must  ring ; Te  Deums  must 
be  sung ; 

The  Queen  hath  felt  the  motion  of  her 
babe ! 

Second  Page.  Ay ; but  see  here  ! 

First  Page.  See  what  ? 

Second  Page.  This  paper,  Dickon. 

I found  it  fluttering  at  the  palace 
gates : — 

The  Queen  of  England  is  delivered 
of  a dead  dog  ! ” 

Third  Page.  These  are  the  things 
that  madden  her.  Fie  upon  it ! 

First  Page.  Ay;  but  I hear  she 
hath  a dropsy,  lad, 

Or  a high-dropsy,  as  the  doctors  call  it. 

Third  Page.  Fie  on  her  dropsy,  so 
she  have  a dropsy  ! 

I know  that  she  was  ever  sweet  to  me. 

First  Page.  For  thou  and  thine  are 
Roman  to  the  core. 

Third  Page.  So  thou  and  thine  must 
be.  Take  heed ! 

First  Page.  Not  I, 

And  whether  this. flash  of  news  be 
false  or  true, 

So  the  wine  run,  and  there  be  revelry, 

Content  am  I.  Let  all  the  steeples 
clash, 

Till  the  sun  dance,  as  upon  Easter  Day. 

\Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  — Great  Hall  in 
Whitehall. 

At  the  far  end  a dais.  On  this  three 
chairs , two  under  one  canopy  for  Mary 
and  Philip,  another  on  the  right  of 
these  for  Pole.  Under  the  dais  on 
Pole’s  side,  ranged  along' the  wall,  sit 
all  the  Spiritual  Peers,  and  along  the 
wall  opposite,  all  the  Temporal.  The 
Commons  on  cross  benches  in  front,  a 
line  of  approach  to  the  dais  between 
them.  In  the  foreground,  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall  and  other  Members  of 
the  Commons. 

First  Member.  St.  Andrew’s  day; 
sit  close,  sit  close,  we  are  friends. 

Is  reconciled  the  word1?  the  Pope 
again  ? 

It  must  be  thus ; and  yet,  cocksbody ! 
how  strange 

That  Gardiner,  once  so  one  with  all  of  us 

Against  this  foreign  marriage,  should 
have  yielded 

So  utterly  ! — strange  ! but  stranger 
still  that  he, 

So  fierce  against  the  Headship  of  the 
Pope, 

Should  play  the  second  actor  in  this 
pageant 

That  brings  him  in  ; such  a cameleon 
he  ! 

Second  Member.  This  Gardiner 
turn’d  his  coat  in  Henry’s  time ; 

The  serpent  that  hath  slough’d  will 
slough  again. 

Third  Member.  Tut,  then  we  all  are 
serpents. 

Second  Mem  ber.  Speak  for  yourself. 
Third  Member.  Ay,  and  for  Gar- 
diner ! being  English  citizen, 

How  should  he  bear  a bridegroom 
out  of  Spain  ? 

The  Queen  would  have  him ! being 
English  churchman 

How  should  he  bear  the  headship  of 
the  Pope  ? 

The  Queen  would  have  it ! Statesmen 
that  are  wise 

Shape  a necessity,  as  a sculptor  clay, 

To  their  own  model. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


561 


Second  Member.  Statesmen  that  are 
wise 

Take  truth  herself  for  model.  What 
say  you  ? [7o  Sir  Ralph 

Bagenhall. 

Bagenhall.  We  talk  and  talk. 

First  Member.  Ay,  and  what  use  to 
talk  ? 

Philip’s  no  sudden  alien  — the  Queen’s 
husband, 

He’s  here,  and  king,  or  will  be  — yet 
cocksbody  ! 

So  hated  here ! I watch’d  a hive  of 
late ; 

My  seven-years’  friend  was  with  me, 
my  young  boy  ; 

Out  crept  a wasp,  with  half  the  swarm 
behind. 

“ Philip  ! ” says  he.  I had  to  cuff  the 
rogue 

For  infant  treason. 

Third  Member.  But  they  say  that 
bees, 

If  any  creeping  life  invade  their  hive 

Too  gross  to  be  thrust  out,  will  build 
him  round, 

And  bind  him  in  from  harming  of 
their  combs. 

And  Philip  by  these  articles  is  bound 

From  stirring  hand  or  foot  to  wrong 
the  realm. 

Second  Member.  By  bonds  of  bees- 
wax, like  your  creeping  thing  ; 

But  your  wise  bees  had  stung  him  first 
to  death. 

Third  Member.  Hush,  hush  ! 

Y ou  wrong  the  Chancellor : the  clauses 
added 

To  that  same  treaty  which  the  em- 
peror sent  us 

Were  mainly  Gardiner’s  : that  no  for- 
eigner 

Hold  office  in  the  household,  fleet, 
forts,  army ; 

That  if  the  Queen  should  die  without 
a child, 

The  bond  between  the  kingdoms  be 
dissolved ; 

That  Philip  should  not  mix  us  any  way 

With  his  French  wars  — 

Second  Member.  Ay,  ay,  but  what 
security, 


Good  sir,  for  this,  if  Philip 

Third  Member.  Peace — the  Queen, 

Philip,  and  Pole.  [ All  rise , and  stand. 

Enter  Mary,  Philip,  and  Pole. 

[Gardiner  conducts  them  to  the  three 
chairs  of  state.  Philip  sits  on  the 
Queen’s  left,  Pole  on  her  right. 

Gardiner.  Our  short-lived  sun,  before 
his  winter  plunge, 

Laughs  at  the  last  red  leaf,  and  An- 
drew’s Hay. 

Mary.  Should  not  this  day  be  held 
in  after  years 

More  solemn  than  of  old  ? 

Philip.  Madam,  my  wish 

Echoes  your  Majesty’s. 

Pole.  It  shall  be  so. 

Gardiner.  Mine  echoes  both  your 
Graces’ ; (aside)  but  the 
Pope  — 

Can  we  not  have  the  Catholic  church 
as  well 

Without  as  with  the  Italian  ? if  we 
cannot, 

Why  then  the  Pope. 

My  lords  of  the  upper  house, 

And  ye,  my  masters,  of  the  lower 
house, 

Do  ye  stand  fast  by  that  which  ye  re- 
solved 1 

Voices.  We  do. 

Gardiner.  And  be  you  all  one  mind 
to  supplicate 

The  Legate  here  for  pardon,  and  ac- 
knowledge 

The  primacy  of  the  Pope  ? 

Voices.  We  are  all  one  mind. 

Gardiner.  Then  must  I play  the 
vassal  to  this  Pole.  \_Aside. 

\_He  draws  a paper  from  under  his 
robes  and  presents  it  to  the  King 
and  Queen,  who  look  through  it 
and  return  it  to  him ; then  as- 
cends a tribune,  and  reads. 

We,  the  Lords  Spiritual  and  Tempo- 
ral, 

And  Commons  here  in  Parliament  as- 
sembled, 

Presenting  the  whole  body  of  this 
realm 


562 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Of  England,  and  dominions  of  the 
same, 

Do  make  most  humble  suit  unto  your 
Majesties, 

In  our  own  name  and  that  of  all  the 
state, 

That  by  your  gracious  means  and  in- 
tercession 

Our  supplication  be  exhibited 
To  the  Lord  Cardinal  Pole,  sent  here 
as  Legate 

From  our  most  Holy  Father  Julius, 
Pope, 

And  from  the  Apostolic  see  of  Rome ; 
And  do  declare  our  penitence  and 
grief 

For  our  long  schism  and  disobedience, 
Either  in  making  laws  and  ordinances 
Against  the  Holy  Father’s  primacy, 
Or  else  by  doing  or  by  speaking  aught 
Which  might  impugn  or  prejudice  the 
same ; 

By  this  our  supplication  promising, 
As  well  for  our  own  selves  as  all  the 
realm, 

That  now  we  be  and  ever  shall  be 
quick, 

Under  and  with  your  Majesties’  au- 
thorities, 

To  do  to  the  utmost  all  that  in  us  lies 
Towards  the  abrogation  and  repeal 
Of  all  such  laws  and  ordinances  made ; 
Whereon  we  humbly  pray  your  Maj- 
esties, 

As  persons  undefiled  with  our  offence, 
So  to  set  forth  this  humble  suit  of  ours 
That  we  the  rather  by  your  interces- 
sion 

May  from  the  Apostolic  see  obtain, 
Thro’  this  most  reverend  Father,  ab- 
solution, 

And  full  release  from  danger  of  all 
censures 

Of  Holy  Church  that  we  be  fall’n  into, 
So  that  we  may,  as  children  penitent, 
Be  once  again  received  into  the  bosom 
And  unity  of  Universal  Church ; 

And  that  this  noble  realm  thro’  after 
years 

May  in  this  unity  and  obedience 
Unto  the  holy  see  and  reigning  Pope 
Serve  God  and  both  your  Majesties. 


Voices.  Amen.  \_All  sit. 

[He  again  presents  the  petition  to 
the  King  and  Queen,  who  hand 
it  reverentially  to  Pole. 

Pole  (sitting).  This  is  the  loveliest 
day  that  ever  smiled 
On  England.  All  her  breath  should, 
incenselike, 

Rise  to  the  heavens  in  grateful  praise 
of  Him 

Who  now  recalls  her  to  His  ancient 
fold. 

Lo!  once  again  God  to  this  realm 
hath  given 

A token  of  His  more  especial  Grace ; 
For  as  this  people  were  the  first  of  all 
The  islands  call’d  into  the  dawning 
church 

Out  of  the  dead,  deep  night  of  heath- 
endom, 

So  now  are  these  the  first  whom  God 
hath  given 

Grace  to  repent  and  sorrow  for  their 
schism ; 

And  if  your  penitence  be  not  mockery, 
Oh  how  the  blessed  angels  who  rejoice 
Over  one  saved  do  triumph  at  this  hour 
In  the  reborn  salvation  of  a land 
So  noble.  [ A pause. 

For  ourselves  we  do  protest 
That  our  commission  is  to  heal,  not 
harm ; 

We  come  not  to  condemn,  but  recon- 
cile ; 

We  come  not  to  compel,  but  call  again ; 
We  come  not  to  destroy,  but  edify ; 
Nor  yet  to  question  things  already 
done ; 

These  are  forgiven  — matters  of  the 
past  — 

And  range  with  jetsam  and  with  offal 
thrown 

Into  the  blind  sea  of  forgetfulness. 

[A  pause. 

Ye  have  reversed  the  attainder  laid 
on  us 

By  him  who  sack’d  the  house  of  God ; 
and  we, 

Amplier  than  any  field  on  our  poor 
earth 

Can  render  thanks  in  fruit  for  being 
sown. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


563 


Do  here  and  now  repay  you  sixty-fold, 
A hundred,  yea,  a thousand  thousand- 
fold, 

With  heaven  for  earth. 

[Rising  and  stretching  forth  his 
hands.  All  kneel  but  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall,  who  rises  and  re- 
mains standing. 

The  Lord  who  hath  redeem’d  us 
With  His  own  blood,  and  wash’d  us 
from  our  sins, 

To  purchase  for  Himself  a stainless 
bride ; 

He,  whom  the  Rather  hath  appointed 
Head 

Of  all  his  church,  He  by  His  mercy 
absolve  you ! [A  pause. 

And  we  by  that  authority  Apostolic 
Given  unto  us,  his  Legate,  by  the  Pope, 
Our  Lord  and  Holy  Father,  Julius, 
God’s  Vicar  and  Vicegerent  upon 
earth, 

Do  here  absolve  you  and  deliver  you 
And  every  one  of  you,  and  all  the 
realm 

And  its  dominions  from  all  heresy, 
All  schism,  and  from  all  and  every 
censure, 

Judgment,  and  pain  accruing  there- 
upon; 

And  also  we  restore  you  to  the  bosom 
And  unity  of  Universal  Church. 

[ Turning  to  Gardiner. 
Our  letters  of  commission  will  declare 
this  plainlier. 

[Queen  heard  sobbing.  Cries  of 
Amen  ! Amen  ! Some  of  the 
Members  embrace  one  another. 
All  but  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall 
pass  out  into  the  neighboring 
chapel,  whence  is  heard  the  Te 
Deum. 

Bagenhall.  We  strove  against  the 
papacy  from  the  first, 

In  William’s  time,  in  our  first  Ed- 
ward’s time, 

And  in  my  master  Henry’s  time ; but 
now, 

The  unity  of  Universal  Church, 

Mary  would  have  it ; and  this  Gardi- 
ner follows ; 

The  unity  of  Universal  Hell, 


Fliilip  would  have  it ; and  this  Gardi- 
ner follows  ! 

A Parliament  of  imitative  apes  ! 

Sheep  at  the  gap  which  Gardiner 
takes,  who  not 

Believes  the  Pope,  nor  any  of  them 
believe  — 

These  spaniel-Spaniard  English  of  the 
time, 

Who  rub  their  fawning  noses  in  the 
dust, 

F or  that  is  Philip’s  gold-dust,  and  adore 

This  Vicar  of  their  Vicar.  Would  I 
had  been 

Born  Spaniard ! I had  held  my  head 
up  then. 

I am  ashamed  that  I am  Bagenhall, 

English. 

Enter  Officer. 

Officer.  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall ! 

Bagenhall.  What  of  that  1 

Officer.  You  were  the  one  sole  man 
in  either  house 

Who  stood  upright  when  both  the 
houses  fell. 

Bagenhall.  The  houses  fell ! 

Officer.  I mean  the  houses  knelt 

Before  the  Legate. 

Bagenhall.  Do  not  scrimp  your 
phrase, 

But  stretch  it  wider ; say  when  Eng- 
land fell. 

Officer.  I say  you  were  the  one  sole 
man  who  stood. 

Bagenhall.  I am  the  one  sole  man 
in  either  house, 

Perchance  in  England,  loves  her  like 
a son. 

Officer.  Well,  you  one  man,  because 
you  stood  upright, 

Her  Grace  the  Queen  commands  you 
to  the  Tower. 

Bagenhall.  As  traitor,  or  as  heretic, 
or  for  what  ? 

Officer.  If  any  man  in  any  way 
would  be 

The  one  man,  he  shall  be  so  to  his  cost. 

Bagenhall.  What!  will  she  have 
my  head  1 

Officer.  A round  fine  likelier. 

Your  pardon.  [ Calling  to  Attendant. 

By  the  river  to  the  Tower.  \Exeunt. 


564 


QUEEN  MARY. 


SCENE  IV.  — Whitehall.  A Room 
in  the  Palace. 

Mary,  Gardiner,  Pole,  Paget, 
Bonner,  etc. 

Mary.  The  King  and  I,  my  Lords, 
now  that  all  traitors 

Against  our  royal  state  have  lost  the 
heads 

Wherewith  they  plotted  in  their  trea- 
sonous malice, 

Have  talk’d  together,  and  are  well 
agreed 

That  those  old  statutes  touching 
Lollardism 

To  bring  the  heretic  to  the  stake, 
should  be 

No  longer  a dead  letter,  but  requick- 
en’d. 

One  of  the  Council.  Why,  what  hath 
fluster’d  Gardiner  ? how  he  rubs 

His  forelock ! 

Paget.  I have  changed  a word  with 
him 

In  coming,  and  may  change  a word 
again. 

Gardiner.  Madam,  your  Highness 
is  our  sun,  the  King 

And  you  together  our  two  suns  in  one ; 

And  so  the  beams  of  both  may  shine 
upon  us, 

The  faith  that  seem’d  to  droop  will 
feel  your  light, 

Lift  head,  and  flourish  ; yet  not  light 
alone, 

There  must  be  heat  — there  must  be 
heat  enough 

To  scorch  and  wither  heresy  to  the 
root. 

For  what  saith  Christ?  “Compel 
them  to  come  in.” 

And  what  saith  Paul ? “I  would 
they  were  cut  off 

That  trouble  you.”  Let  the  dead  let- 
ter live ! 

Trace  it  in  fire,  that  all  the  louts  to 
whom 

Their  A B C is  darkness,  clowns  and 
grooms 

May  read  it ! so  you  quash  rebellion 
too, 


For  heretic  and  traitor  are  all  one : 

Two  vipers  of  one  breed  — an  amphis- 
boena, 

Each  end  a sting : Let  the  dead  letter 
burn ! 

Paget.  Yet  there  be  some  disloyal 
Catholics, 

And  many  heretics  loyal ; heretic 
throats 

Cried  no  God-bless-her  to  the  Lady 
Jane, 

But  shouted  in  Queen  Mary.  So  there 
be 

Some  traitor-heretic,  there  is  axe  and 
cord. 

To  take  the  lives  of  others  that  are 
loyal, 

And  by  the  churchman’s  pitiless  doom 
of  fire, 

Were  but  a thankless  policy  in  the 
crown, 

Ay,  and  against  itself;  for  there  are 
many. 

Mary.  If  we  could  burn  out  here- 
sy, my  Lord  Paget, 

We  reck  not  tho’  we  lost  this  crown 
of  England  — 

Ay  ! tho’  it  were  ten  Englands  ! 

Gardiner.  Right,  your  Grace. 

Paget,  you  are  all  for  this  poor  life  of 
ours, 

And  care  but  little  for  the  life  to 
be. 

Paget.  I have  some  time,  for  curi- 
ousness, my  Lord, 

Watch’d  children  playing  at  their  life 
to  be, 

And  cruel  at  it,  killing  helpless  flies  ; 

Such  is  our  time  — all  times  for  aught 
I know. 

Gardiner.  We  kill  the  heretics 
that  sting  the  soul  — 

They,  with  right  reason,  flies  that 
prick  the  flesh. 

Paget.  They  had  not  reach’d  right 
reason ; little  children ! 

They  kill’d  but  for  their  pleasure  and 
the  power 

They  felt  in  killing. 

Gardiner.  A spice  of  Satan,  ha! 

Why,  good ! what  then  ? granted  ! — 
we  are  fallen  creatures ; 


QUEEN  MARY. 


565 


Look  to  your  Bible,  Paget ! we  are 
fallen. 

Paget.  I am  but  of  the  laity,  my 
Lord  Bishop, 

And  may  not  read  your  Bible,  yet  I 
found 

One  day,  a wholesome  scripture, 
“ Little  children, 

Love  one  another.” 

Gardiner.  Did  you  find  a scripture, 

“ I come  not  to  bring  peace  but  a 
sword  ” ? The  sword 

Is  in  her  Grace’s  hand  to  smite  with. 
Paget, 

You  stand  up  here  to  fight  for  heresy, 

You  are  more  than  guess’d  at  as  a 
heretic, 

And  on  the  steep-up  track  of  the  true 
faith 

Your  lapses  are  far  seen. 

Paget.  The  faultless  Gardiner ! 

Mary.  You  brawl  beyond  the  ques- 
tion ; speak,  Lord  Legate  ! 

Pole.  Indeed,  I cannot  follow  with 
your  Grace : 

Bather  would  say  — the  shepherd 
doth  not  kill 

The  sheep  that  wander  from  his  flock, 
but  sends 

His  careful  dog  to  bring  them  to  the 
fold. 

Look  to  the  Netherlands,  wherein 
have  been 

Such  holocausts  of  heresy ! to  what 
end  'i 

For  yet  the  faith  is  not  established 
there. 

Gardiner.  The  end’s  not  come. 

Pole.  No  — nor  this  way 

will  come, 

Seeing  there  lie  two  ways  to  every 
end, 

Abetter  and  a worse — the  worse  is 
here 

To  persecute,  because  to  persecute 

Makes  a faith  hated,  and  is  further- 
more 

No  perfect  witness  of  a perfect  faith 

In  him  who  persecutes  : when  men  are 
tost 

On  tides  of  strange  opinion,  and  not 
sure 


Of  their  own  selves,  they  are  wroth 
with  their  own  selves, 

And  thence  with  others ; then,  who 
lights  the  faggot  1 

Not  the  full  faith,  no,  but  the  lurking 
doubt. 

Old  Rome,  that  first  made  martyrs  in 
the  Church, 

Trembled  for  her  own  gods,  for  these 
were  trembling  — 

But  when  did  our  Rome  tremble  1 
Paget.  Did  she  not 

In  Henry’s  time  and  Edward’s  'i 
Pole.  What,  my  Lord  ! 

The  Church  on  Peter’s  rock  1 never ! 
I have  seen 

A pine  in  Italy  that  cast  its  shadow 
Athwart  a cataract;  firm  stood  the 
pine  — 

The  cataract  shook  the  shadow.  To 
my  mind, 

The  cataract  typed  the  headlong 
plunge  and  fall 

Of  heresy  to  the  pit : the  pine  was 
Rome. 

You  see,  my  Lords, 

It  was  the  shadow  of  the  Church  that 
trembled ; 

Your  church  was  but  the  shadow  of  a 
church ; 

Wanting  the  Papal  mitre. 

Gardiner  ( muttering ).  Here  be  tropes. 
Pole.  And  tropes  are  good  to  clothe 
a naked  truth, 

And  make  it  look  more  seemly. 

Gardiner.  Tropes  again ! 

Pole.  You  are  hard  to  please.  Then 
without  tropes,  my  Lord, 

An  overmuch  severeness,  I repeat, 
When  faith  is  wavering  makes  the 
waverer  pass 

Into  more  settled  hatred,  of  the  doc- 
trines 

Of  those  who  rule,  which  hatred  by 
and  by 

Involves  the  ruler  (thus  there  springs 
to  light 

That  Centaur  of  a monstrous  Com- 
monweal, 

The  traitor-heretic)  then  tho’  some 
may  quail. 


566 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Yet  others  are  that  dare  the  stake  and 
fire, 

And  their  strong  torment  bravely 
borne,  begets 

An  admiration  and  an  indignation, 

And  hot  desire  to  imitate ; so  the 
plague 

Of  schism  spreads ; were  there  but 
three  or  four 

Of  these  misleaders,  yeti  would  notsay 

Burn ! and  we  cannot  burn  whole 
towns  ; they  are  many, 

As  my  Lord  Paget  says. 

Gardiner.  Yet  my  Lord  Cardinal  — 

Pole.  I am  your  Legate ; please  you 
let  me  finish. 

Methinks  that  under  our  Queen’s 
regimen 

We  might  go  softlier  than  with  crim- 
son rowel 

And  streaming  lash.  When  Herod- 
Henry  first 

Began  to  batter  at  your  English 
Church, 

This  was  the  cause,  and  hence  the 
judgment  on  her. 

She  seethed  with  such  adulteries,  and 
the  lives 

Of  many  among  your  churchmen  were 
so  foul 

That  heaven  wept  and  earth  blush’d. 
I would  advise 

That  we  should  thoroughly  cleanse 
the  Church  within 

Before  these  bitter  statutes  be  requick- 
en’d. 

So  after  that  when  she  once  more  is 
seen 

White  as  the  light,  the  spotless  bride 
of  Christ, 

Like  Christ  himself  on  Tabor,  pos- 
sibly • 

The  Lutheran  may  be  won  to  her 
again ; 

Till  when,  my  Lords,  I counsel  toler- 
ance. 

Gardiner.  What,  if  a mad  dog  bit 
your  hand,  my  Lord, 

Would  you  not  chop  the  bitten  finger 
off, 

Lest  your  whole  body  should  madden 
with  the  poison  ? 


I would  not,  were  I Queen,  tolerate 
the  heretic, 

No,  not  an  hour.  The  ruler  of  a 
land 

Is  bounden  by  his  power  and  place  to 
see 

His  people  be  not  poison’d.  Tolerate 
them ! 

Why  ? do  they  tolerate  you  ? Nay, 
many  of  them 

Would  burn  — have  burnt  each  other ; 
call  they  not 

The  one  true  faith,  a loathsome  idol- 
worship  ? 

Beware,  Lord  Legate,  of  a heavier 
crime 

Than  heresy  is  itself ; beware,  I say, 

Lest  men  accuse  you  of  indifference 

To  all  faiths,  all  religion ; for  you 
know 

Right  well  that  you  yourself  have  been 
supposed 

Tainted  with  Lutheranism  it  Italy. 

Pole  [angered).  But  you,  my  Lord, 
beyond  all  supposition, 

In  clear  and  open  day  were  congruent 

With  that  vile  Cranmer  in  the  ac- 
cursed lie 

Of  good  Queen  Catherine’s  divorce  — 
the  spring 

Of  all  those  evils  that  have  flow’d 
upon  us ; 

For  you  yourself  have  truckled  to  the 
tyrant, 

And  done  your  best  to  bastardize  our 
Queen, 

For  which  God’s  righteous  judgment 
fell  upon  you 

In  your  five  years  of  imprisonment, 
my  Lord, 

Under  young  Edward.  Who  so  bol- 
ster’d up 

The  gross  King’s  headship  of  the 
Church,  or  more 

Denied  the  Holy  Father! 

Gardiner.  Ha  ! what ! eh  1 

But  you,  my  Lord,  a polish’d  gentle- 
man, 

A bookman,  flying  from  the  heat  and 
tussle, 

You  lived  among  your  vines  and 
oranges, 


QUEEN  MARY . 


567 


In  your  soft  Italy  yonder  ! You  were 
sent  for, 

You  were  appeal’d  to,  but  you  still 
preferr’d 

Your  learned  leisure.  As  for  what  I 
did 

I suffer’d  and  repented.  You,  Lord 
Legate 

And  Cardinal-Deacon,  have  not  now 
to  learn 

That  ev’n  St.  Peter  in  his  time  of  fear 

Denied  his  Master,  ay,  and  thrice,  my 
Lord. 

Pole.  But  not  for  five-and-twenty 
years,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner.  Ha  ! good  ! it  seems  then 
I was  summon’d  hither 

But  to  be  mock’d  and  baited.  Speak, 
friend  Bonner, 

And  tell  this  learned  Legate  he  lacks 
zeal. 

The  Church’s  evil  is  not  as  the 
King’s, 

Cannot  be  heal’d  by  stroking.  The 
mad  bite 

Must  have  the  cautery  — tell  him  — 
and  at  once. 

What  would’st  thou  do  hadst  thou  his 
power,  thou 

That  layest  so  long  in  heretic  bonds 
with  me ; 

Would’st  thou  not  burn  and  blast  them 
root  and  branch  ? 

Bonner.  Ay,  after  you,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner.  Nay,  God’s  passion,  be- 
fore me  ! speak  ! 

Bonner.  I am  on  fire  until  I see 
them  flame. 

Gardiner.  Ay,  the  psalm-singing 
weavers,  cobblers,  scum  — 

But  this  most  noble  prince  Planta- 
genet, 

Our  good  Queen’s  cousin  — dallying 
over  seas 

Even  when  his  brother’s,  nay,  his 
noble  mother’s, 

Head  fell  — 

Pole.  Peace,  madman ! 

Thou  stirrest  up  a grief  thou  canst 
not  fathom. 

The11  Christian  Bishop,  thou  Lord 
Chancellor 


Of  England  ! no  more  rein  upon  thine 
anger 

Than  any  child ! Thou  mak’st  me 
much  ashamed 

That  I was  for  a moment  wroth  at  thee. 

Mary.  I come  for  counsel  and  ye 
give  me  feuds, 

Like  dogs  that  set  to  watch  their  mas- 
ter’s gate, 

Fall,  when  the  thief  is  ev’n  within  the 
walls, 

To  worrying  one  another.  My  Lord 
Chancellor, 

You  have  an  old  trick  of  offending 
us ; 

And  but  that  you  are  art  and  part 
with  us 

In  purging  heresy,  well  we  might,  for 
this 

Your  violence  and  much  roughness  to 
the  Legate, 

Have  shut  you  from  our  counsels. 
Cousin  Pole, 

You  are  fresh  from  brighter  lands. 
Retire  with  me. 

His  Highness  and  myself  (so  you 
allow  us) 

Will  let  you  learn  in  peace  and  pri- 
vacy 

What  power  this  cooler  sun  of  Eng- 
land hath 

In  breeding  godless  vermin.  And 
pray  Heaven 

That  you  may  see  according  to  our 
sight. 

Come,  cousin. 

[ Exeunt  Queen  and  Pole,  etc. 

Gardiner.  Pole  has  the  Plantagenet 
face, 

But  not  the  force  made  them  our 
mightiest  kings. 

Fine  eyes  — but  melancholy,  irreso- 
lute — 

A fine  beard,  Bonner,  a very  full  fine 
beard. 

But  a weak  mouth,  an  indeterminate 
— ha  ? 

Bonner.  Well,  a weak  mouth,  per- 
chance. 

Gardiner.  And  not  like  thine 

To  gorge  a heretic  whole,  roasted  or 
raw. 


568 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Bonner.  I’d  do  my  best,  my  Lord; 
but  yet  the  Legate 

Is  here  as  Pope  and  Master  of  the 
Church, 

And  if  he  go  not  with  you  — 

Gardiner.  Tut,  Master  Bishop, 

Our  bashful  Legate,  saw’st  not  how  he 
flush’d  ? 

Touch  him  upon  his  old  heretical 
talk, 

He’ll  burn  a diocese  to  prove  his  or- 
thodoxy. 

And  let  him  call  me  truckler.  In 
those  times, 

Thou  knowest  we  had  to  dodge,  or 
duck,  or  die ; 

I kept  my  head  for  use  of  Holy 
Church ; 

And  see  you,  we  shall  have  to  dodge 
again, 

And  let  the  Pope  trample  our  rights, 
and  plunge 

His  foreign  fist  into  our  island  Church 

To  plump  the  leaner  pouch  of  Italy. 

For  a time,  for  a time. 

Why  1 that  these  statutes  may  be  put 
in  force, 

And  that  his  fan  may  thoroughly 
purge  his  floor. 

Bonner.  So  then  you  hold  the 
Pope  — 

Gardiner.  I hold  the  Pope  ! 

What  do  I hold  him  ] what  do  I hold 
the  Pope  ? 

Come,  come,  the  morsel  stuck  — this 
Cardinal’s  fault  — 

I have  gulpt  it  down.  I am  wholly 
for  the  Pope, 

Utterly  and  altogether  for  the  Pope, 

The  Eternal  Peter  of  the  changeless 
chair, 

Crown’d  slave  of  slaves,  and  mitred 
king  of  kings, 

God  upon  earth  ! what  more  1 what 
would  you  have  1 

Hence,  let’s  be  gone. 

Enter  Usher. 

Usher.  Well  that  you  be  not  gone, 

My  lord.  The  Queen,  most  wroth  at 
first  with  you, 


Is  now  content  to  grant  you  full  for- 
giveness, 

So  that  you  crave  full  pardon  of  the 
Legate. 

I am  sent  to  fetch  you. 

Gardiner.  Doth  Pole  yield,  sir, 
ha ! 

Did  you  hear  ’em  ? were  you  by  ? 

Usher.  I cannot  tell  you, 

His  bearing  is  so  courtly-delicate ; 

And  yet  methinks  he  falters : their 
two  Graces 

Do  so  dear-cousin  and  royal-cousin 
him, 

So  press  on  him  the  duty  which  as 
Legate 

He  owes  himself,  and  with  such  royal 
smiles  — 

Gardiner.  Smiles  that  burn  men. 
Bonner,  it  will  be  carried. 

He  falters,  ha '?  ’fore  God,  we  change 
and  change ; 

Men  now  are  bow’d  and  old,  the  doc- 
tors tell  you, 

At  three-score  years ; then  if  we 
change  at  all 

We  needs  must  do  it  quickly  ; it  is  an 
age 

Of  brief  life,  and  brief  purpose,  and 
brief  patience, 

As  I have  shown  to-day.  I am  sorry 
for  it 

If  Pole  be  like  to  turn.  Our  old 
friend  Cranmer, 

Your  more  especial  love,  hath  turn’d 
so  often, 

He  knows  not  where  he  stands,  which, 
if  this  pass, 

We  two  shall  have  to  teach  him;  let 
’em  look  to  it, 

Cranmer  and  Hooper,  Ridley  and 
Latimer, 

Rogers  and  Ferrar,  for  their  time  is 
come, 

Their  hour  is  hard  at  hand,  their 
“ dies  Irae,” 

Their  “dies  111a,”  which  will  test 
their  sect. 

I feel  it  but  a duty  — you  will  find  in 
it 

Pleasure  as  well  as  duty,  worthy 
Bonner,  — 


QUEEN  MARY. 


569 


To  test  their  sect.  Sir,  I attend  the 
Queen 

To  crave  most  humble  pardon  — of 
her  most 

Royal,  Infallible,  Papal  Legate-cousin, 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  — W oodstock. 

Elizabeth,  Lady  in  Waiting. 

Elizabeth.  So  they  have  sent  poor 
Courtenay  over  sea. 

Lady.  And  banish’d  us  to  Wood- 
stock,  and  the  fields. 

The  colors  of  our  Queen  are  green  and 
white, 

These  fields  are  only  green,  they  make 
me  gape. 

Elizabeth.  There’s  whitethorn,  girl. 

Lady.  Ay,  for  an  hour  in  May. 

But  court  is  always  May,  buds  out  in 
masques. 

Breaks  into  feather’d  merriments,  and 
flowers 

In  silken  pageants.  Why  do  they 
keep  us  here  ? 

Why  still  suspect  your  Grace  'i 

Elizabeth.  Hard  upon  both. 

[ Writes  on  the  window  with  a diamond. 

Much  suspected,  of  me 
Nothing  proven  can  be. 

Quoth  Elizabeth,  prisoner. 

Lady.  What  hath  your  Highness 
written  ? 

Elizabeth.  A true  rhyme. 

Lady.  Cut  with  a diamond;  so  to 
last  like  truth. 

Elizabeth.  Ay,  if  truth  last. 

Lady.  But  truth,  they  say,  will  out, 

So  it  must  last.  It  is  not  like  a word, 

That  comes  and  goes  in  uttering. 

Elizabeth.  Truth,  a word! 

The  very  Truth  and  very  Word  are 
one. 

But  truth  of  story,  which  I glanced 
at,  girl, 

Is  like  a word  that  comes  from  olden 
days, 

And  passes  thro’  the  peoples  : every 
tongue 


Alters  it  passing,  till  it  spells  and 
speaks 

Quite  other  than  at  first. 

Ijady.  I do  not  follow. 

Elizabeth.  How  many  names  in  the 
long  sweep  of  time 

That  so  foreshortens  greatness,  may 
but  hang 

On  the  chance  mention  of  some  fool 
that  once 

Brake  bread  with  us,  perhaps:  and 
my  poor  chronicle 

Is  but  of  glass.  Sir  Henry  Beding- 
field 

May  split  it  for  a spite. 

Lady.  God  grant  it  last, 

And  witness  to  your  Grace’s  innocence, 

Till  doomsday  melt  it. 

Elizabeth.  Or  a second  fire, 

Like  that  which  lately  crackled  under- 
foot 

And  in  this  very  chamber,  fuse  the  glass, 

And  char  us  back  again  into  the  dust 

We  spring  from.  Never  peacock 
against  rain 

Scream’d  as  you  did  for  water. 

Lady.  And  I got  it. 

I woke  Sir  Henry  — and  he’s  true  to 
you  — 

I read  his  honest  horror  in  his  eyes. 

Elizabeth.  Or  true  to  you  ? 

Lady.  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield  ! 

I will  have  no  man  true  to  me,  your 
Grace, 

But  one  that  pares  his  nails  ; to  me  1 
the  clown ! 

Elizabeth.  Out,  girl ! you  wrong  a 
noble  gentleman. 

Lady.  For,  like  his  cloak,  his  man- 
ners want  the  nap 

And  gloss  of  court ; but  of  this  fire  he 
says, 

Nay  swears,  it  was  no  wicked  wilful- 
ness, 

Only  a natural  chance. 

Elizabeth.  A chance  — perchance 

One  of  those  wicked  wilfuls  that  men 
make, 

Nor  shame  to  call  it  nature.  Nay,  I 
know 

They  hunt  my  blood.  Save  for  my 
daily  range 


570 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Among  the  pleasant  fields  of  Holy 
Writ 

I might  despair.  But  there  hath 
some  one  come ; 

The  house  is  all  in  movement.  Hence, 
and  see.  [ Exit  Lady. 

Milkmaid  ( singing  ivithout). 

Shame  upon  you,  Robin, 

Shame  upon  you  now! 

Kiss  me  would  you?  with  my  hands 
Milking  the  cow? 

Daisies  grow  again, 

Kingcups  blow  again, 

And  you  came  and  kiss’d  me  milking  the  cow. 

Robin  came  behind  me, 

Kiss’d  me  well  I vow ; 

Cuff  him  could  1?  with  my  hands 
Milking  the  cow? 

Swallows  fly  again, 

Cuckoos  cry  again, 

And  you  came  and  kiss’d  me  milking  the  cow. 

Come,  Robin,  Robin, 

Come  and  kiss  me  now; 

Help  it  can  I?  with  my  hands 
Milking  the  cow? 

Ringdoves  coo  again, 

All  things  woo  again. 

Come  behind  and  kiss  me  milking  the  cow ! 

Elizabeth.  Right  honest  and  red- 
cheek’d ; Robin  was  violent, 

And  she  was  crafty  — a sweet  vio- 
lence, 

And  a sweet  craft.  I would  I were  a 
milkmaid, 

To  sing,  love,  marry,  churn,  brew, 
bake,  and  die, 

Then  have  my  simple  headstone  by 
the  church, 

And  all  things  lived  and  ended  hon- 
estly. 

I could  not  if  I would.  I am  Harry’s 
daughter  : 

Gardiner  would  have  my  head.  They 
are  not  sweet, 

The  violence  and  the  craft  that  do 
divide 

The  world  of  nature  ; what  is  weak 
must  lie ; 

The  lion  needs  but  roar  to  guard  his 
young ; 

The  lapwing  lies,  says  “ here  ” when 
they  are  there. 

Threaten  the  child  ; “I’ll  scourge  you 
if  you  did  it ; ” 


What  weapon  hath  the  child,  save  his 
soft  tongue, 

To  say  “ I did  not  ? ” and  my  rod’s  the 
block. 

I never  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow 

But  that  I think,  “ Wilt  thou  lie  there 
to-morrow  \ ” 

How  oft  the  falling  axe,  that  never 
fell, 

Hath  shock’d  me  back  into  the  day- 
light truth 

That  it  may  fall  to-day ! Those 
damp,  black,  dead 

Nights  in  the  Tower;  dead  — with  the 
fear  of  death 

Too  dead  ev’n  for  a death-watch! 
Toll  of  a bell, 

Stroke  of  a clock,  the  scurrying  of  a 
rat 

Affrighted  me,  and  then  delighted  me, 

For  there  was  life  — And  there  was 
life  in  death  — 

The  little  murder’d  princes,  in  a pale 
light, 

Rose  hand  in  hand,  and  whisper’d, 
“ come  away ! 

The  civil  wars  are  gone  for  ever- 
more : 

Thou  last  of  all  the  Tudors,  come 
away ! 

With  us  is  peace ! ” The  last  ? It 
was  a dream  ; 

I must  not  dream,  not  wink,  but  watch. 
She  has  gone, 

Maid  Marian  to  her  Robin  — by  and 
by 

Both  happy  ! a fox  may  filch  a hen  by 
night, 

And  make  a morning  outcry  in  the 
yard; 

But  there’s  no  Renard  here  to  “ catch 
her  tripping.” 

Catch  me  who  can ; yet,  sometime  I 
have  wish’d 

That  I were  caught,  and  kill’d  away 
at  once 

Out  of  the  flutter.  The  gray  rogue, 
Gardiner, 

Went  on  his  knees,  and  pray’d  me  to 
confess 

In  Wyatt’s  business,  and  to  cast  my- 
self 


Much  suspected,  of  me 
Nothing  proven  can  be,’ 

Quoth  Elizabeth,  prisoner.” 

Page  569. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


571 


Upon  the  good  Queen’s  mercy;  ay, 
when,  my  Lord  ? 

God  save  the  Queen  ! My  jailor  — 

Enter  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield. 

Bedingfield.  One,  whose  bolts, 

That  jail  you  from  free  life,  bar  you 
from  death. 

There  haunt  some  Papist  ruffians 
here  about 
Would  murder  you. 

Elizabeth.  I thank  you  heartily,  sir, 
But  I am  royal,  tli o’  your  prisoner, 
And  God  hath  blest  or  cursed  me  with 
a nose  — 

Your  boots  are  from  the  horses. 

Bedingfield.  Ay,  my  Lady. 

When  next  there  comes  a missive 
from  the  Queen 

It  shall  be  all  my  study  for  one  hour 
To  rose  and  lavender  my  horsiness, 
Before  I dare  to  glance  upon  your 
Grace. 

Elizabeth.  A missive  from  the 
Queen:  last  time  she  wrote, 

I had  like  to  have  lost  my  life : it 
takes  my  breath  ; 

O God,  sir,  do  you  look  upon  your 
boots, 

Are  you  so  small  a man  1 Help  me  : 
what  think  you, 

Is  it  life  or  death  1 

Bedingfield.  I thought  not  on  my 
boots ; 

The  devil  take  all  boots  were  ever 
made 

Since  man  went  barefoot.  See,  I lay 
it  here, 

For  I will  come  no  nearer  to  your 
Grace ; 

[. Laying  down  the  letter. 
And,  whether  it  bring  you  bitter  news 
or  sweet, 

And  God  hath  given'  your  grace  a 
nose,  or  not, 

I’ll  help  you,  if  I may. 

Elizabeth.  Your  pardon,  then  ; 

It  is  the  heat  and  narrowness  of  the 
cage 

That  makes  the  captive  testy;  with 
free  wring 


The  world  wore  all  one  Araby.  Leave 
me  now, 

Will  you,  companion  to  myself,  sir  ? 

Bedingfield.  Will  1 1 

With  most  exceeding  willingness,  I 
will ; 

You  know  I never  come  till  I be  call’d. 

{Exit. 

Elizabeth.  It  lies  there  folded : is 
there  venom  in  it  ? 

A snake — and  if  I touch  it,  it  may 
sting. 

Come,  come,  the  worst ! 

Best  wisdom  is  to  know  the  worst  at 
once.  [ Reads : 

“It  is  the  King’s  wish,  that 
you  should  wed  Prince  Philibert  of 
Savoy.  You  are  to  come  to  Court  on 
the  instant ; and  think  of  this  in  your 
coming. 

“Mary  the  Queen.” 

Think  ! I have  many  thoughts  ; 

I think  there  may  be  birdlime  here  for 
me; 

' I think  they  fain  would  have  me  from 
the  realm ; 

I think  the  Queen  may  never  bear  a 
child ; 

I think  that  I may  be  some  time  the 
Queen, 

Then,  Queen  indeed : no  foreign  prince 
or  priest 

Should  fill  my  throne,  myself  upon 
the  steps. 

I think  1 will  not  marry  anyone, 
Specially  not  this  landless  Philibert 
Of  Savoy ; but,  if  Philip  menace  me, 
I think  that  I will  play  with  Phili- 
bert, — 

As  once  the  Holy  Father  did  with 
mine, 

Before  my  father  married  my  good 
mother,  — 

For  fear  of  Spain. 

Enter  Lady. 

Lady.  0 Lord  ! your  Grace,  your 
Grace, 

I feel  so  happy : it  seems  that  we  shall 

fly 


572 


QUEEN  MARY. 


These  bald,  blank  fields,  and  dance 
into  the  sun 

That  shines  on  princes. 

Elizabeth.  Yet,  a moment  since, 

I wish’d  myself  the  milkmaid  singing 
here, 

To  kiss  and  cuff  among  the  birds  and 
flowers  — 

A right  rough  life  and  healthful. 

Lady.  But  the  wench 

Hath  her  own  troubles ; she  is  weep- 
ing now ; 

For  the  wrong  Robin  took  her  at  her 
word. 

Then  the  cow  kick’d,  and  all  her  milk 
was  spilt. 

Your  highness  such  a milkmaid  1 

Elizabeth.  I had  kept 

My  Robins  and  my  cows  in  sweeter 
order 

Had  I been  such. 

Lady  (slyly).  And  had  your  Grace 
a Robin  ? 

Elizabeth.  Come,  come,  you  are 
chill  here;  you  want  the  sun 

That  shines  at  court ; make  ready  for 
the  journey. 

Pray  God,  we  ’scape  the  sunstroke. 
Ready  at  once.  [ Exeunt . 


SCENE  YI.  — London.  A Room  in 
the  Palace. 

Lord  Petre  and  Lord  William 
Howard. 

Petre.  You  cannot  see  the  Queen. 
Renard  denied  her, 

Ev’n  now  to  me. 

Howard.  Their  Flemish  go-between 

And  all-in-all.  I came  to  thank  her 
Majesty 

For  freeing  my  friend  Bagenhall 
from  the  Tower ; 

A grace  to  me  ! Mercy,  that  herb-of- 
grace, 

Flowers  now  but  seldom. 

Petre.  Only  now  perhaps. 

Because  the  Queen  hath  been  three 
days  in  tears 

For  Philip’s  going — like  the  wild 
hedge-rose 


Of  a soft  winter,  possible,  not  prob- 
able, 

However  you  have  prov’n  it. 

Howard.  I must  see  her. 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard.  My  Lords,  you  cannot  see 
her  Majesty. 

Howard.  Why  then  the  King ! for 
I would  have  him  bring  it 

Home  to  the  leisure  wisdom  of  his 
Queen, 

Before  he  go,  that  since  these  statutes 
past, 

Gardiner  out-Gardiners  Gardiner  in 
his  heat, 

Bonner  cannot  out-Bonner  his  own 
self  — 

Beast! — but  they  play  with  fire  as 
children  do, 

And  burn  the  house.  I know  that 
these  are  breeding 

A fierce  resolve  and  fixt  heart-hate  in 
men 

Against  the  King,  the  Queen,  the 
Holy  Father, 

The  faith  itself.  Can  I not  see  him  ? 

Renard.  Not  now. 

And  in  all  this,  my  Lord,  her  Majesty 

Is  flint  of  flint,  you  may  strike  fire 
from  her, 

Not  hope  to  melt  her.  I will  give 
your  message. 

\_Exeunt  Petre  and  Howard. 

Enter  Philip  (musing). 

Philip.  She  will  not  have  Prince 
Philibert  of  Savoy, 

I talk’d  with  her  in  vain  — says  she 
will  live 

And  die  true  maid  — a goodly  crea- 
ture too. 

Would  she  had  been  the  Queen!  yet 
she  must  have  him  ; 

She  troubles  England : that  she 

breathes  in  England 

Is  life  and  lungs  to  every  rebel  birth 

That  passes  out  of  embryo. 

Simon  Renard ! — 

This  Howard,  whom  they  fear,  what 
was  he  saying  1 


QUEEN  MARY. 


573 


Renard.  What  your  imperial  father 
said,  my  liege, 

To  deal  with  heresy  gentlier.  Gardi- 
ner burns, 

And  Bonner  burns ; and  it  would  seem 
this  people 

Care  more  for  our  brief  life  in  their 
wet  land. 

Than  yours  in  happier  Spain.  I told 
my  Lord 

He  should  not  vex  her  Highness ; she 
would  say 

These  are  the  means  God  works  with, 
that  His  church 

May  flourish. 

Philip.  Ay,  sir,  but  in  statesmanship 

To  strike  too  soon  is  oft  to  miss  the 
blow. 

Thou  knowrest  I bade  my  chaplain, 
Castro,  preach 

Against  these  burnings. 

Renard.  And  the  Emperor 

Approved  you,  and  when  last  he  wrote, 
declared 

His  comfort  in  your  Grace  that  you 
were  bland 

And  affable  to  men  of  all  estates, 

In  hope  to  charm  them  from  their 
hate  of  Spain. 

Philip.  In  hope  to  crush  all  heresy 
under  Spain. 

But,  Renard,  lam  sicker  staying  here 

Than  any  sea  could  make  me  passing 
hence, 

Tho’  I be  ever  deadly  sick  at  sea. 

So  sick  am  I with  biding  for  this  child. 

Is  it  the  fashion  in  this  clime  for 
women 

To  go  twelve  months  in  bearing  of  a 
child  ? 

The  nurses  yawn’d,  the  cradle  gaped, 
they  led 

Processions,  chanted  litanies,  clash’d 
their  bells, 

Shot  off  their  lying  cannon,  and  her 
priests 

Have  preach’d,  the  fools,  of  this  fair 
prince  to  come  ; 

Till,  by  St.  James,  I find  myself  the 
fool. 

Why  do  you  lift  your  eyebrow  at  me 
thus  ? 


Renard.  I never  saw  your  Highness 
moved  till  now. 

Philip.  So  weary  am  I of  this  wet 
land  of  theirs, 

And  every  soul  of  man  that  breathes 
therein. 

Renard.  My  liege,  we  must  not 
drop  the  mask  before 

The  masquerade  is  over  — 

Philip.  — Have  I dropt  it  ? 

I have  but  shown  a loathing  face1  to 
you, 

Who  knew  it  from  the  first. 

Enter  Mary. 

Mary  (aside).  With  Renard.  Still 

Parleying  with  Renard,  all  the  day 
with  Renard, 

And  scarce  a greeting  all  the  day  for 
me  — 

And  goes  to-morrow.  [Exit  Mary. 

Philip  (to  Renard,  who  advances  to 
him).  Well,  sir,  is  there  more  ? 

Renard  (who  has  perceived  the  Queen). 
May  Simon  Renard  speak  a 
single  word  ? 

Philip.  Ay. 

Renard.  And  be  forgiven  for  it  ? 

Philip.  Simon  Renard 

Knows  me  too  well  to  speak  a single 
word 

That  could  not  be  forgiven. 

Renard.  Well,  my  liege, 

Your  Grace  hath  a most  chaste  and 
loving  wife. 

Philip.  Why  not  1 The  Queen  of 
Philip  should  be  chaste. 

Renard.  Ay,  but,  my  Lord,  you 
know  what  Virgil  sings, 

Woman  is  various  and  most  mutable. 

Philip.  She  play  the  harlot ! never. 

Renard.  No,  sire,  no, 

Not  dream’d  of  by  the  rabidest  gos- 
peller. 

There  was  a paper  thrown  into  the 
palace, 

“The  King  hath  wearied  of  his  bar- 
ren bride.” 

She  came  upon  it, read  it, and  then  rent 
it, 

With  all  the  rage  of  one  who  hates  a 
truth 


574 


QUEEN  MARY. 


He  cannot  but  allow.  Sire,  I would 
have  you  — 

What  should  I say,  I cannot  pick  my 
words  — 

Be  somewhat  less  — majestic  to  your 
Queen. 

Philip.  Am  I to  change  my  man- 
ners, Simon  Renard, 

Because  these  islanders  are  brutal 
. beasts  ? 

Or  would  you  have  me  turn  a son- 
neteer, 

And  warble  those  brief-sighted  eyes 
of  hers  ? 

Renard.  Brief-sighted  tho’  they  be, 
I have  seen  them,  sire, 

When  you  perchance  were  trifling 
royally 

With  some  fair  dame  of  court,  sud- 
denly fill 

With  such  fierce  fire  — had  it  been 
fire  indeed 

It  would  have  burnt  both  speakers. 

Philip.  Ay,  and  then  ? 

Renard.  Sire,  might  it  not  be  policy 
in  some  matter 

Of  small  importance  now  and  then  to 
cede 

A point  to  her  demand  ? 

Philip.  Well,  I am  going. 

Renard.  For  should  her  love  when 
you  are  gone,  my  liege, 

Witness  these  papers,  there  will  not 
be  wanting 

Those  that  will  urge  her  injury  — 
should  her  love  — 

And  I have  known  such  women  more 
than  one  — 

Veer  to  the  counterpoint,  and  jeal- 
ousy 

Hath  in  it  an  alchemic  force  to  fuse 

Almost  into  one  metal  loveandhate, — 

And  she  impress  her  wrongs  upon  her 
Council, 

And  these  again  upon  her  Parlia- 
ment — 

We  are  not  loved  here,  and  would  be 
then  perhaps 

Not  so  well  holpen  in  our  wars  with 
France, 

As  else  we  might  be  — here  she  comes. 


Enter  Mary. 

Mary.  0 Philip  ! 

Nay,  must  you  go  indeed  ? 

Philip.  Madam,  I must. 

Mary.  The  parting  of  a husband 
and  a wife 

Is  like  the  cleaving  of  a heart ; one  half 

Will  flutter  here,  one  there. 

Philip.  You  say  true,  Madam. 

Mary.  The  Holy  Virgin  will  not 
have  me  yet 

Lose  the  sweet  hope  that  I may  bear 
a prince. 

If  such  a prince  were  born  and  you 
not  here ! 

Philip.  I should  be  here  if  such  a 
prince  were  born. 

Mary.  But  must  you  go  ? 

Philip.  Madam,  you  know  my  fa- 
ther, 

Retiring  into  cloistral  solitude 

To  yield  the  remnant  of  his  years  to 
heaven, 

Will  shift  the  yoke  and  weight  of  all 
the  world 

From  off  his  neck  to  mine.  We  meet 
at  Brussels. 

But  since  mine  absence  will  not  be  for 
long, 

Your  Majesty  shalCgo  to  Dover  with 
me, 

And  wait  my  coming  back. 

Mary.  To  Dover  ? no, 

I am  too  feeble.  I will  go  to  Green- 
wich, 

So  you  will  have  me  with  you ; and 
there  watch 

All  that  is  gracious  in  the  breath  of 
heaven 

Draw  with  your  sails  from  our  poor 
land,  and  pass 

And  leave  me,  Philip,  with  my  prayers 
for  you. 

Philip.  And  doubtless  I shall  profit 
by  your  prayers. 

Mary.  Methinks  that  would  you 
tarry  one  day  more 

(The  news  was  sudden)  I could  mould 
myself 

To  bear  your  going  better;  will  you 
do  it? 


QUEEN  MARY. 


575 


Philip.  Madam,  a day  may  sink  or 
save  a realm. 

Mary.  A day  may  save  a heart 
from  breaking  too. 

Philip.  Well,  Simon  Benard,  shall 
we  stop  a day  ? 

Renard.  Your  Grace’s  business  will 
not  suffer,  sire, 

For  one  day  more,  so  far  as  I can  tell. 
Philip.  Then  one  day  more  to  please 
her  Majesty. 

Mary.  The  sunshine  sweeps  across 
my  life  again. 

0 if  I knew  you  felt  this  parting, 

Philip, 

As  I do ! 

Philip.  By  St.  James  I do  protest, 
Upon  the  faith  and  honor  of  a Span- 
iard, 

1 am  vastly  grieved  to  leave  your 

Majesty. 

Simon,  is  supper  ready  ? 

Renard.  Ay,  my  liege, 

I saw  the  covers  laying. 

Philip.  Let  us  have  it.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — A Boom  in  the  Palace. 
Mary,  Cardinal  Pole. 

Mary.  What  have  you  there? 

Pole.  So  please  your  Majesty, 

A long  petition  from  the  foreign 
exiles 

To  spare  the  life  of  Cranmer.  Bishop 
Thirlby, 

And  my  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard, 

Crave,  in  the  same  cause,  hearing  of 
your  Grace. 

Hath  he  not  written  himself  — in- 
fatuated— 

To  sue  you  for  his  life  ? 

Mary.  His  life  ? Oh,  no  ; 

Not  sued  for  that  — he  knows  it  were 
in  vain. 

But  so  much  of  the  anti-papal  leaven 

Works  in  him  yet,  he  hath  pray’d  me 
not  to  sully 


Mine  own  prerogative,  and  degrade 
the  realm 

By  seeking  justice  at  a stranger’s 
hand 

Against  my  natural  subject.  King 
and  Queen, 

To  whom  he  owes  his  loyalty  after 
God, 

Shall  these  accuse  him  to  a foreign 
prince  ? 

Death  would  not  grieve  him  more.  I 
cannot  be 

True  to  this  realm  of  England  and 
the  Pope 

Together,  says  the  heretic. 

Pole.  And  there  errs  ; 

As  he  hath  ever  err’d  thro’  vanity. 

A secular  kingdom  is  but  as  the  body 

Lacking  a soul ; and  in  itself  a beast. 

The  Holy  Father  in  a secular  kingdom 

Is  as  the  soul  descending  out  of 
heaven 

Into  a body  generate. 

Mary.  Write  to  him,  then. 

Pole.  I will. 

Mary.  And  sharply,  Pole. 

Pole.  Here  come  the  Cranmerites  ! 

Enter  Thirlby,  Lord  Paget,  Lord 
William  Howard. 

Howard.  Health  to  your  Grace ! 
Good  morrow,  my  Lord  Cardi- 
nal; 

We  make  our  humble  prayer  unto 
your  Grace 

That  Cranmer  may  withdraw  to 
foreign  parts, 

Or  into  private  life  within  the  realm. 

In  several  bills  and  declarations, 
Madam, 

He  hath  recanted  all  his  heresies. 

Paget.  Ay,  ay ; if  Bonner  have  not 
forged  the  bills.  [Aside. 

Mary.  Did  not  More  die,  and 
Fisher  ? he  must  burn. 

Howard.  He  hath  recanted,  Madam. 

Alary.  The  better  for  him. 

He  burns  in  Purgatory,  not  in  Hell. 

Howard.  Ay,  ay,  your  Grace ; but 
it  was  never  seen 

I That  any  one  recanting  thus  at  full, 


576 


QUEEN  MARY. 


As  Cranmer  hath,  came  to  the  Are  on 
earth. 

Mary.  It  will  be  seen  now,  then. 

Thirlby.  O Madam,  Madam  ! 

I thus  implore  you,  low  upon  my 
knees, 

To  reach  the  hand  of  mercy  to  my 
friend. 

I have  err’d  with  him ; with  him  I have 
recanted. 

What  human  reason  is  there  why  my 
friend 

Should  meet  with  lesser  mercy  than 
myself  ? 

Mary.  My  Lord  of  Ely,  this.  After 
a riot 

We  hang  the  leaders,  let  their  follow- 
ing go. 

Cranmer  is  head  and  father  of  these 
heresies, 

New  learning  as  they  call  it;  yea,  may 
God 

Forget  me  at  most  need  when  I for- 
get 

Her  foul  divorce  — my  sainted  mother 
— No!  — 

Howard.  Ay,  ay,  but  mighty  doctors 
doubted  there. 

The  Pope  himself  waver’d ; and  more 
than  one 

Row’d  in  that  galley  — Gardiner  to 
wit, 

Whom  truly  I deny  not  to  have  been 

Your  faithful  friend  and  trusty  coun- 
cillor. 

Hath  not  your  Highness  ever  read  his 
book, 

His  tractate  upon  True  Obedience, 

Writ  by  himself  and  Bonner  1 

Mary.  I will  take 

Such  order  with  all  bad,  heretical 
books 

That  none  shall  hold  them  in  his 
house  and  live, 

Henceforward.  No,  my  Lord. 

Howard.  Then  never  read  it. 

The  truth  is  here.  Your  father  was 
a man 

Of  such  colossal  kinghood,  yet  so 
courteous, 

Except  when  wroth,  you  scarce  could 
meet  his  eye 


And  hold  your  own ; and  were  he 
wroth  indeed, 

You  held  it  less,  or  not  at  all.  I say, 

Your  father  had  a will  that  beat  men 
down ; 

Your  father  had  a brain  that  beat 
men  down  — 

Pole.  Not  me,  my  Lord. 

Howard.  No,  for  you  were  not  here ; 

You  sit  upon  this  fallen  Cranmer’s 
throne ; 

And  it  would  more  become  you,  my 
Lord  Legate, 

To  join  a voice,  so  potent  with  her 
Highness, 

To  ours  in  plea  for  Cranmer  than  to 
stand 

On  naked  self-assertion. 

Mary.  All  your  voices 

Are  waves  on  flint.  The  heretic  must 
burn. 

Howard.  Yet  once  he  saved  your 
Majesty’s  own  life  ; 

Stood  out  against  the  King  in  your 
behalf, 

At  his  own  peril. 

Mary.  I know  not  if  he  did  ; 

And  if  he  did  I care  not,  my  Lord 
Howard. 

My  life  is  not  so  happy,  no  such 
boon, 

That  I should  spare  to  take  a heretic 
priest’s, 

Who  saved  it  or  not  saved.  Why  do 
you  vex  me  ? 

Paget.  Yet  to  save  Cranmer  were 
to  serve  the  Church, 

Your  Majesty’s  I mean;  he  is  effaced, 

Self-blotted  out ; so  wounded  in  his 
honor, 

He  can  but  creep  down  into  some  dark 
hole 

Like  a hurt  beast,  and  hide  himself 
and  die ; 

But  if  you  burn  him,  — well,  your 
Highness  knows 

The  saying,  “ Martyr’s  blood  — seed 
of  the  Church.” 

Mary.  Of  the  true  Church ; but  his 
is  none,  nor  will  be. 

You  are  too  politic  for  me,  my  Lord 
Paget. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


577 


And  if  he  have  to  live  so  loath’d  a 
life, 

It  were  more  merciful  to  burn  him 
now. 

Thirlby.  0 yet  relent.  O,  Madam, 
if  you  knew  him 

As  I do,  ever  gentle,  and  so  gracious, 

With  all  his  learning  — 

Mary . Yet  a heretic  still. 

His  learning  makes  his  burning  the 
more  just. 

Thirlby.  So  worshipt  of  all  those 
that  came  across  him  ; 

The  stranger  at  his  hearth,  and  all  his 
house  — 

Mary.  His  children  and  his  concu- 
bine, belike. 

Thirlby.  To  do  him  any  wrong  was 
to  beget 

A kindness  from  him,  for  his  heart 
was  rich, 

Of  such  fine' mould,  that  if  you  sow’d 
therein 

The  seed  of  Hate,  it  blossom’d  Charity. 

Pole.  “ After  his  kind  it  costs  him 
nothing,”  there’s 

An  old  world  English  adage  to  the 
point. 

These  are  but  natural  graces,  my 
good  Bishop, 

Which  in  the  Catholic  garden  are  as 
flowers, 

But  on  the  heretic  dunghill  only  weeds. 

Howard.  Such  weeds  make  dung- 
hills gracious. 

.Mary.  Enough,  my  Lords. 

It  is  God’s  will,  the  Holy  Father’s  will, 

And  Philip’s  will,  and  mine,  that  he 
should  burn. 

He  is  pronounced  anathema. 

Howard.  Farewell,  Madam, 

God  grant  you  ampler  mercy  at  your 
call 

Than  you  have  shown  to  Cranmer. 

[. Exeunt  Lords. 

Pole.  After  this, 

Your  Grace  will  hardly  care  to  over- 
look 

This  same  petition  of  the  foreign  exiles 

For  Cranmer’s  life. 

Mary.  Make  out  the  writ  to-night. 

[ Exeunt . 


SCENE  II.  — Oxford.  Cranmer  in 
Prison. 

Cranmer.  Last  night,  I dream’d  the 
faggots  were  alight, 

And  that  myself  was  fasten’d  to  the 
stake, 

And  found  it  all  a visionary  flame, 

Cool  as  the  light  in  old  decaying  wood ; 

And  then  King  Harry  look’d  from 
out  a cloud, 

And  bade  me  have  good  courage ; 
and  I heard 

An  angel  cry  “ There  is  more  joy  in 
Heaven,” — 

And  after  that,  the  trumpet  of  the 
dead. 

[ Trumpets  without. 

Why,  there  are  trumpets  blowing 
now : what  is  it  ? 

Enter  Father  Cole. 

Cole.  Cranmer,  I come  to  question 
you  again  ; 

Have  you  remain’d  in  the  true  Cath- 
olic faith 

I left  you  in  ? 

Cranmer.  In  the  true  Catholic 
faith, 

By  Heaven’s  grace,  I am  more  and 
more  confirm’d. 

Why  are  the  trumpets  blowing,  Father 
Cole? 

Cole.  Cranmer,  it  is  decided  by  the 
Council 

That  you  to-day  should  read  your 
recantation 

Before  the  people  in  St.  Mary’s 
Church. 

And  there  be  many  heretics  in  the 
town, 

Who  loathe  you  for  your  late  return 
to  Rome,  % 

And  might  assail  you  passing  through 
the  street, 

And  tear  you  piecemeal : so  you  have 
a guard. 

Cranmer.  Or  seek  to  rescue  me.  I 
thank  the  Council. 

Cole.  Do  you  lack  any  money  7 


578 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Cranmer.  Nay,  why  should  I ? 

1'he  prison  fare  is  good  enough  for  me. 

CcoC.  Ay,  but  to  give  the  poor 

Cranmer.  Hand  it  me,  then ! 

I thank  you. 

Cole.  For  a little  space,  farewell ; 

Until  I see  you  in  St.  Mary’s  Church. 

[ Exit  Cole. 

Cranmer.  It  is  against  all  prece- 
dent to  burn 

One  who  recants ; they  mean  to  par- 
don me. 

To  give  the  poor  — they  give  the  poor 
who  die. 

Well,  burn  me  or  not  burn  me  I am 
fixt ; 

It  is  but  a communion,  not  a mass  : 

A holy  supper,  not  a sacrifice ; 

No  man  can  make  his  Maker  — Villa 
Garcia. 

Enter  Villa  Garcia. 

Villa  Garcia.  Pray  you  write  out 
this  paper  for  me,  Cranmer. 

Cranmer.  Have  I not  writ  enough 
to  satisfy  you  ? 

Villa  Garcia.  It  is  the  last. 

Cranmer.  Give  it  me,  then. 

[He  writes. 

Villa  Garcia.  Now  sign. 

Cranmer.  I have  sign’d  enough, 
and  I will  sign  no  more. 

Villa  Garcia.  It  is  no  more  than 
^ what  you  have  sign’d  already, 

The  public  form  thereof. 

Cranmer.  It  may  be  so ; 

I sign  it  with  my  presence,  if  I read  it. 

Villa  Garcia.  But  this  is  idle  of 
you.  Well,  sir,  well, 

You  are  to  beg  the  people  to  pray  for 
you; 

Exhort  them  to  a pure  and  virtuous 
life ; 

Declare  the  Queen’s  right  to  the 
throne ; confess 

Your  faith  before  all  hearers ; and 
retract 

That  Eucharistic  doctrine  in  your 
book. 

Will  you  not  sign  it  now  'l 

Cranmer.  No,  Villa  Garcia, 


I sign  no  more.  Will  they  have  mercy 
on  me  ? 

Villa  Garcia.  Have  you  good  hopes 
of  mercy  ! So  farewell.  [Exit. 

Cranmer.  Good  hopes,  not  theirs, 
have  I that  I am  fixt, 

Fixt  beyond  fall ; however,  in  strange 
hours, 

After  the  long  brain-dazing  colloquies, 
And  thousand-times  recurring  argu- 
ment 

Of  those  two  friars  ever  in  my  prison, 
When  left  alone  in  my  despondency, 
Without  a friend,  a book,  my  faith 
would  seem 

Dead  or  half-drown’d,  or  else  swam 
heavily 

Against  the  huge  corruptions  of  the 
Church, 

Monsters  of  mistradition,  old  enough 
To  scare  me  into  dreaming,  “ what 
am  I, 

Cranmer,  against  whole  ages  1 ” was 
it  so, 

Or  am  I slandering  my  most  inward 
friend, 

To  veil  the  fault  of  my  most  outward 
foe  — 

The  soft  and  tremulous  coward  in  the 
flesh  ? 

0 higher,  holier,  earlier,  purer  church, 

1 have  found  thee  and  not  leave  thee 

any  more. 

It  is  but  a communion,  not  a mass  — 
No  sacrifice,  but  a life-giving  feast ! 

( Writes.)  So,  so;  this  will  I say  — 
thus  will  I pray.  [ Puts  up  the 
paper. 

Enter  Bonner. 

Bonner.  Good  day,  old  friend ; 
what,  you  look  somewhat  worn  ; 
And  yet  it  is  a day  to  test  your  health 
Ev’n  at  the  best : I scarce  have  spoken 
with  you 

Since  when  ? — your  degradation.  At 
your  trial 

Never  stood  up  a bolder  man  than 
you ; 

You  would  not  cap  the  Pope’s  com- 
missioner— 


QUEEN  MARY. 


579 


Your  learning,  and  your  stoutness, 
and  your  heresy, 

Dumbfounded  half  of  us.  So,  after 
that, 

\Ye  had  to  dis-archbishop  and  unlord, 

And  make  you  simple  Cranmer  once 
again. 

The  common  barber  dipt  your  hair, 
and  I 

Scraped  from  your  finger-points  the 
holy  oil ; 

And  worse  than  all,  you  had  to  kneel 
to  me; 

Which  was  not  pleasant  for  you, 
Master  Cranmer. 

Now  you,  that  would  not  recognize 
the  Pope, 

And  you,  that  would  not  own  the  Real 
Presence, 

Have  found  a real  presence  in  the 
stake, 

Which  frights  you  back  into  the  an- 
cient faith ; 

And  so  you  have  recanted  to  the  Pope. 

How  are  the  mighty  fallen,  Master 
Cranmer ! 

Cranmer.  You  have  been  more 
fierce  against  the  Pope  than  I; 

But  why  fling  back  the  stone  he  strikes 
me  with  ? [Aside. 

0 Bonner,  if  I ever  did  you  kindness  — 

Power  hath  been  given  you  to  try 

faith  by  fire  — 

Pray  you,  remembering  how  yourself 
have  changed, 

Be  somewhat  pitiful,  after  I have 
gone, 

To  the  poor  flock  — to  women  and  to 
children  — 

That  when  I was  archbishop  held  with 
me. 

Bonner.  Ay  — gentle  as  they  call 
you  — live  or  die  ! 

Pitiful  to  this  pitiful  heresy  'i 

1 must  obey  the  Queen  and  Council, 

man. 

Win  thro’  this  day  with  honor  to  your- 
self, 

And  I’ll  say  something  for  you — so 
— good-bye.  [Exit. 

Cranmer.  This  hard  coarse  man  of 
old  hath  crouch’d  to  me 


Till  I myself  was  half  ashamed  for 
him„ 

Enter  Thirlby. 

Weep  not,  good  Thirlby. 

Thirlby.  Oh,  my  Lord,  my  Lord  \ 

My  heart  is  no  such  block  as  Bonner’s 
is ; 

Who  would  not  weep  ? 

Cranmer.  Why  do  you  so  my-lord 
me, 

Who  am  disgraced  ? 

Thirlby.  On  earth ; but  saved  in 
heaven 

By  your  recanting. 

Cranmer.  Will  they  burn  me, 

Thirlby  % 

Thirlby.  Alas,  they  will ; these 
burnings  will  not  help 

The  purpose  of  the  faith ; but  my  poor 
voice 

Against  them  is  a whisper  to  the  roar 

Of  a spring-tide. 

Cranmer.  And  they  will  surely 
burn  me  ? 

Thirlby.  Ay  ; and  besides,  will  have 
you  in  the  church 

Repeat  your  recantation  in  the  ears 

Of  all  men,  to  the  saving  of  their 
souls, 

Before  your  execution.  May  God 
help  you 

Thro’  that  hard  hour  ! 

Cranmer.  And  may  God  bless  you, 
Thirlby  ! 

Well,  they  shall  hear  my  recantation 
there.  [Exit  Thirlby. 

Disgraced,  dishonor’d  ! — not  by  them, 
indeed, 

By  mine  own  self  — by  mine  own 
hand ! 

O thin-skinn’d  hand  and  jutting  veins, 
’twas  you 

That  sign’d  the  burning  of  poor  Joan 
of  Kent ; 

But  then  she  was  a witch.  You  have 
written  much, 

But  you  were  never  raised  to  plead 
for  Frith, 

Whose  dogmas  I have  reach’d : he 
was  deliver’d 


580 


QUEEN  MARY. 


To  the  secular  arm  to  burn ; and  there 
was  Lambert ; 

Who  can  foresee  himself?  truly  these 
burnings, 

As  Thirlby  says,  are  profitless  to  the 
burners, 

And  help  the  other  side.  You  shall 
burn  too, 

Burn  first  when  I am  burnt. 

Fire  — inch  by  inch  to  die  in  agony  ! 
Latimer 

Had  a brief  end  — not  Ridley. 
Hooper  burn’d 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Will  my 
faggots 

Be  wet  as  his  were  ? It  is  a day  of 
rain. 

I will  not  muse  upon  it. 

My  fancy  takes  the  burner’s  part,  and 
makes 

The  fire  seem  even  crueller  than  it 
is. 

No,  I not  doubt  that  God  will  give 
me  strength, 

Albeit  I have  denied  him. 

Enter  Soto  and  Villa  Garcia. 

Villa  Garcia.  We  are  ready 

To  take  you  to  St.  Mary’s,  Master 
Cranmer. 

Cranmer.  And  I : lead  on  ; ye  loose 
me  from  my  bonds.  [ Exeunt . 

SCENE  III.  — St.  Mary’s  Church. 

Cole  in  the  Pulpit,  Lord  Williams 
of  Thame  presiding.  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard,  Lord  Paget,  and 
others.  Cranmer  enters  between 
Soto  and  Villa  Garcia,  and  the 
whole  Choir  strike  up  “ Nunc  Dimit- 
tis.”  Cranmer  is  set  upon  a Scaf- 
fold before  the  people. 

Cole.  Behold  him  — 

[A  pause  : people  in  the  foreground. 
People.  Oh,  unhappy  sight ! 

First  Protestant.  See  how  the  tears 
run  down  his  fatherly  face. 
Second  Protestant.  James,  didst  thou 
ever  see  a carrion  crow 


Stand  watching  a sick  beast  before  he 
dies  ? 

First  Protestant.  Him  perch’d  up 
there  ? I wish  some  thunder- 
bolt 

Would  make  this  Cole  a cinder,  pulpit 
and  all. 

Cole.  Behold  him,  brethren : he 
hath  cause  to  weep  ! — 

So  have  we  all : weep  with  him  if  ye 
will, 

Yet 

It  is  expedient  for  one  man  to  die, 

Yea,  for  the  people,  lest  the  people 
die. 

Yet  wherefore  should  he  die  that  hath 
return’d 

To  the  one  Catholic  Universal  Church, 

Repentant  of  his  errors  ? 

Protestant  murmurs.  Ay,  tell  us 
that. 

Cole.  Those  of  the  wrong  side  will 
despise  the  man, 

Deeming  him  one  that  thro’  the  fear 
of  death 

Gave  up  his  cause,  except  he  seal  his 
faith 

In  sight  of  all  with  flaming  martyr- 
dom. 

Cranmer.  Ay. 

Cole.  Ye  hear  him,  and  albeit  there 
may  seem 

According  to  the  canons  pardon  due 

To  him  that  so  repents,  yet  are  there 
causes 

Wherefore  our  Queen  and  Council  at 
this  time 

Adjudge  him  to  the  death.  He  hath 
been  a traitor, 

A shaker  and  confounder  of  the 
realm ; 

And  when  the  King’s  divorce  was 
sued  at  Rome, 

He  here,  this  heretic  metropolitan, 

As  if  he  had  been  the  Holy  Father, 
sat 

And  judged  it.  Did  I call  hinj 
heretic  ? 

A huge  heresiarch ! never  was  it 
known 

That  any  man  so  writing,  preaching 
so, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


581 


So  poisoning  the  Church,  so  long  con- 
tinuing, 

Hath  found  his  pardon ; therefore  he 
must  die, 

For  warning  and  example. 

Other  reasons 

There  be  for  this  man’s  ending,  which 
our  Queen 

And  Council  at  this  present  deem  it 
not 

Expedient  to  be  known. 

Protestant  murmurs.  I warrant  you. 

Cole.  Take  therefore,  all,  example 
by  this  man, 

For  if  our  Holy  Queen  not  pardon  him, 

Much  less  shall  others  in  like  cause 
escape, 

That  all  of  you,  the  highest  as  the 
lowest, 

May  learn  there  is  no  power  against 
the  Lord. 

There  stands  a man,  once  of  so  high 
degree, 

Chief  prelate  of  our  Church,  arch- 
bishop, first 

In  Council,  second  person  in  the 
realm, 

Friend  for  so  long  time  of  a mighty 
King; 

And  now  ye  see  downfallen  and  de- 
based 

From  councillor  to  caitiff  — fallen  so 
low, 

The  leprous  flutterings  of  the  byway, 
scum 

And  offal  of  the  city  would  not 
change 

Estates  with  him ; in  brief,  so  miser- 
able, 

There  is  no  hope  of  better  left  for  him, 

No  place  for  worse. 

Yet,  Cranmer,  be  thou  glad. 

This  is  the  work  of  God.  He  is  glori- 
fied 

In  thy  conversion : lo ! thou  art  re- 
claim’d ; 

He  brings  thee  home  : nor  fear  but 
that  to-day 

Thou  shalt  receive  the  penitent  thief’s 
award, 

And  be  with  Christ  the  Lord  in  Para- 
dise. 


Remember  how  God  made  the  fierce 
fire  seem 

To  those  three  children  like  a pleas- 
ant dew. 

Remember,  too, 

The  triumph  of  St.  Andrew  on  his 
cross, 

The  patience  of  St.  Lawrence  in  the 
fire. 

Thus,  if  thou  call  on  God  and  all  the 
saints, 

God  will  beat  down  the  fury  of  the 
flame, 

Or  give  thee  saintly  strength  to  under- 
go. 

And  for  thy  soul  shall  masses  here  be 
sung 

By  every  priest  in  Oxford.  Pray  for 
him. 

Cranmer.  Ay,  one  and  all,  dear 
brothers,  pray  for  me  ; 

Pray  with  one  breath,  one  heart,  one 
soul  for  me. 

Cole.  And  now,  lest  anyone  among 
you  doubt 

The  man’s  conversion  and  remorse  of 
heart, 

Yourselves  shall  hear  him  speak. 
Speak,  Master  Cranmer, 

Fulfil  your  promise  made  me,  and 
proclaim 

Your  true  undoubted  faith,  that  all 
may  hear. 

Cranmer.  And  that  I will.  O God, 
Father  of  Heaven  ! 

O Son  of  God,  Redeemer  of  the  world ! 

0 Holy  Ghost ! proceeding  from  them 

both, 

Three  persons  and  one  God,  have 
mercy  on  me, 

Most  miserable  sinner,  wretched  man. 

1 have  offended  against  heaven  and 

earth 

More  grievously  than  any  tongue  can 
tell. 

Then  whither  should  I flee  for  any 
help  ? 

I am  ashamed  to  lift  my  eyes  to  heaven, 

And  I can  find  no  refuge  upon  earth. 

Shall  I despair  then  ? — God  forbid! 
0 God, 

For  thou  art  merciful,  refusing  none 


582 


QUEEN  MARY. 


That  come  to  Thee  for  succor,  unto 
Thee, 

Therefore,  I come ; humble  myself  to 
Thee , 

Saying,  O Lord  God,  although  my  sins 
be  great, 

For  thy  great  mercy  have  mercy  ! O 
God  the  Son, 

Not  for  slight  faults  alone,  when  thou 
becamest 

Man  in  the  Flesh,  was  the  great  mys- 
tery wrought ; 

0 God  the  Father,  not  for  little  sins 
Didst  thou  yield  up  thy  Son  to  human 
death  ; 

But  for  the  greatest  sin  that  can  be 
sinn’d, 

Yea,  even  such  as  mine,  incalculable, 
Unpardonable,  — sin  against  the  light, 
The  truth  of  God,  which  I had  proven 
and  known. 

Thy  mercy  must  be  greater  than  all 
sin. 

Forgive  me,  Father,  for  no  merit  of 
mine, 

But  that  Thy  name  by  man  be  glori- 
fied, 

And  Thy  most  blessed  Son’s,  who  died 
for  man. 

Good  people,  every  man  at  time  of 
death 

Would  fain  set  forth  some  saying  that 
may  live 

After  his  death  and  better  humankind  ; 
For  death  gives  life’s  last  word  a 
power  to  live, 

And,  like  the  stone-cut  epitaph,  remain 
After  the  vanish’d  voice,  and  speak 
to  men. 

God  grant  me  grace  to  glorify  my  God! 
And  first  I say  it  is  a grievous  case. 
Many  so  dote  upon  this  bubble  world, 
Whose  colors  in  a moment  break  and 

fly. 

They  care  for  nothing  else.  What 
saith  St.  John : — 

“ Love  of  this  world  is  hatred  against 
God.” 

Again,  I pray  you  all  that,  next  to  God, 
You  do  unmurmuringly  and  willingly 
Obey  your  King  and  Queen,  and  not 
for  dread 


Of  these  alone,  but  from  the  fear  of 
Him 

Whose  ministers  they  be  to  govern 
you. 

Thirdly,  I pray  you  all  to  live  together 

Like  brethren ; yet  what  hatred 
Christian  men 

Bear  to  each  other,  seeming  not  as 
brethren, 

But  mortal  foes  ! But  do  you  good  to 
all 

As  much  as  in  you  lieth.  Hurt  no 
man  more 

Than  you  would  harm  your  loving 
natural  brother 

Of  the  same  roof,  same  breast.  If  any 
do, 

Albeit  he  think  himself  at  home  with 
God, 

Of  this  be  sure,  he  is  whole  worlds 
away. 

Protestant  murmurs.  What  sort  of 
brothers  then  be  those  that  lust 

To  burn  each  other  ? 

Williams.  Peace  be  among  you, 
there ! 

Cranmer.  Fourthly,  to  those  that 
own  exceeding  wealth, 

Remember  that  sore  saying  spoken 
once 

By  Him  that  was  the  truth,  “ How 
hard  it  is 

For  the  rich  man  to  enter  into 
Heaven ; ” 

Let  all  rich  men  remember  that  hard 
word. 

I have  not  time  for  more  : if  ever,  now 

Let  them  flow  forth  in  charity,  seeing 
now 

The  poor  so  many,  and  all  food  so 
dear. 

Long  have  I lain  in  prison,  yet  have 
heard 

Of  all  their  wretchedness.  Give  to 

• the  poor, 

Ye  give  to  God.  He  is  with  us  in  the 
poor. 

And  now,  forasmuch  as  I have 
come 

To  the  last  end  of  life,  and  thereupon 

Hangs  all  my  past,  and  all  my  life  to 
be. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


583 


Either  to  live  with  Christ  in  Heaven 
with  joy, 

Or  to  be  still  in  pain  with  devils  in 
hell ; 

And,  seeing  in  a moment,  I shall  find 
[. Pointing  upwards. 

Heaven  or  else  hell  read}'  to  swallow 
me,  [Pointing  downwards. 

I shall  declare  to  you  my  very  faith 

Without  all  color. 

Cole.  Hear  him,  my  good  brethren. 

Cranmer.  Ido  believe  in  God,  Father 
of  all ; 

In  every  article  of  the  Catholic  faith, 

And  every  syllable  taught  us  by  our 
Lord, 

His  prophets,  and  apostles,  in  the 
Testaments, 

Both  Old  and  New. 

Cole.  Be  plainer,  Master  Cranmer. 

Cranmer.  And  now  I come  to  the 
great  cause  that  weighs 

Upon  my  conscience  more  than  any- 
thing 

Or  said  or  done  in  all  my  life  by  me ; 

For  there  be  writings  I have  set  abroad 

Against  the  truth  I knew  within  my 
heart, 

Written  for  fear  of  death,  to  save  my 
life, 

If  that  might  be ; the  papers  by  my 
hand 

Sign’d  since  my  degradation  — by  this 
hand 

[. Holding  out  his  right  hand. 

Written  and  sign’d  — I here  renounce 
them  all ; 

And,  since  my  hand  offended,  having 
written 

Against  my  heart,  my  hand  shall  first 
be  burnt, 

So  I may  come  to  the  fire. 

[Dead  silence. 

Protestant  murmurs. 

First  Protestant.  I knew  it  would  be 
so. 

Second  Protestant.  Our  prayers  are 
heard  ! 

Third  Protestant.  God  bless  him  ! 

Catholic  murmurs.  Out  upon  him  ! 
out  upon  him  ! 

Liar  ! dissembler ! traitor  ! to  the  fire  ! 


Williams  (raising  his  voice).  You 

know  that  you  recanted  all  you 
said 

Touching  the  sacrament  in  that  same 
book 

You  wrote  against  my  Lord  of  Win- 
chester ; 

Dissemble  not ; play  the  plain  Chris- 
tian man. 

Cranmer.  Alas,  my  Lord, 

I have  been  a man  loved  plainness  all 
my  life ; 

I did  dissemble,  but  the  hour  has  come 

For  utter  truth  and  plainness  ; where- 
fore, I say, 

I hold  by  all  I wrote  within  that  book. 

Moreover, 

As  for  the  Pope  I count  him  Anti- 
christ, 

With  all  his  devil’s  doctrines ; and 
refuse, 

Reject  him,  and  abhor  him.  I have 
said.  [Cries  on  all  sides, 

“Pull  him  down  ! Away  with 
him ! ” 

Cole.  Ay,  stop  the  heretic’s  mouth  ! 
Hale  him  away  ! 

Williams.  Harm  him  not,  harm  him 
not ! have  him  to  the  fire  ! 

[Cranmer  goes  out  between  Two 
Friars,  smiling;  hands  are  reached 
to  him  from  the  crowd.  Lord 
Willtam  Howard  and  Lord 
Paget  are  left  alone  in  the  church. 

Paget.  The  nave  and  aisles  all 
empty  as  a fool’s  jest ! 

No,  here’s  Lord  William  Howard. 
What,  my  Lord, 

You  have  not  gone  to  see  the  burning  ? 

Howard.  Fie! 

To  stand  at  ease,  and  stare  as  at  a 
show, 

And  watch  a good  man  burn.  Never 
again. 

I saw  the  deaths  of  Latimer  and  Rid- 
ley. 

Moreover,  tho’  a Catholic,  I would  not, 

For  the  pure  honor  of  our  common 
nature, 

Hear  what  I might  — another  recanta 
tion 

Of  Cranmer  at  the  stake. 


584 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Paget.  You’d  not  hear  that. 

He  pass’d  out  smiling,  and  he  walk’d 
upright ; 

His  eye  was  like  a soldier’s,  whom  the 
general 

He  looks  to  and  he  leans  on  as  his 
God, 

Hath  rated  for  some  backwardness 
and  bidd’n  him 

Charge  one  against  a thousand,  and 
the  man 

Hurls  his  soil’d  life  against  the  pikes 
and  dies. 

Howard.  Yet  that  he  might  not 
after  all  those  papers 
Of  recantation  yield  again,  who 
knows  ? 

Paget.  Papers  of  recantation ! 
Think  you  then 

That  Cranmer  read  all  papers  that  he 
sign’d  ? 

Or  sign’d  all  those  they  tell  us  that  he 
sign’d  ? 

Nay,  I trow  not:  and  you  shall  see, 
my  Lord, 

That  howsoever  hero-like  the  man 
Dies  in  the  fire,  this  Bonner  or  another 
Will  in  some  lying  fashion  misreport 
His  ending  to  the  glory  of  their 
church. 

And  you  saw  Latimer  and  Ridley  die  1 
Latimer  was  eighty,  was  he  not  1 his 
best 

Of  life  was  over  then. 

Howard.  His  eighty  years 

Look’d  somewhat  crooked  on  him  in 
his  frieze  ; 

But  after  they  had  stript  him  to  his 
shroud, 

He  stood  upright,  a lad  of  twenty-one, 
And  gather’d  with  his  hands  the  start- 
ing flame, 

And  wash’d  his  hands  and  all  his  face 
therein, 

Until  the  powder  suddenly  blew  him 
dead. 

Ridley  was  longer  burning ; but  he 
died 

As  manfully  and  boldly,  and,  ’fore 
God, 

I know  them  heretics,  but  right  Eng- 
lish ones. 


If  ever,  as  heaven  grant,  we  clash 
with  Spain, 

Our  Ridley-soldiers  and  our  Latimer- 
sailors 

Will  teach  her  something. 

Paget.  Your  mild  Legate  Pole 

Will  tell  you  that  the  devil  helpt  them 
thro’  it. 

[A  murmur  of  the  Crowd  in  the 
distance. 

Hark,  how  those  Roman  wolfdogs 
howl  and  bay  him  ! 

Howard.  Might  it  not  be  the  other 
side  rejoicing 

In  his  brave  end  ? 

Paget.  They  are  too  crush’d,  too 
broken, 

They  can  but  weep  in  silence. 

Howard.  Ay,  ay,  Paget, 

They  have  brought  it  in  large  measure 
on  themselves. 

Have  I not  heard  them  mock  the 
blessed  Host 

In  songs  so  lewd,  the  beast  might  roar 
his  claim 

To  being  in  God’s  image,  more  than 
they  ? 

Have  I not  seen  the  gamekeeper,  the 
groom, 

Gardener,  and  huntsman,  in  the  par- 
son’s place, 

The  parson  from  his  own  spire  swung 
out  dead, 

And  Ignorance  crying  in  the  streets, 
and  all  men 

Regarding  her  1 I say  they  have 
drawn  the  fire 

On  their  own  heads : yet,  Paget,  I do 
hold 

The  Catholic,  if  he  have  the  greater 
right, 

Hath  been  the  crueller. 

Paget.  Action  and  re-action, 

The  miserable  see-saw  of  our  child- 
world, 

Make  us  despise  it  at  odd  hours,  my 
Lord. 

Heaven  help  that  this  re-action  not 
re-act 

Yet  fiercelier  under  Queen  Elizabeth, 

So  that  she  come  to  rule  us. 

Howard.  The  world’s  mad. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


5S5 


Paget.  My  Lord,  the  world  is  like 
a drunken  man, 

Who  cannot  move  straight  to  his  end 
— but  reels 

Now  to  the  right,  then  as  far  to  the 
left, 

Push’d  by  the  crowd  beside  — and 
underfoot 

An  earthquake ; for  since  Henry  for 
a doubt  — 

Which  a young  lust  had  clapt  upon 
the  back, 

Crying,  “Forward!” — set  our  old 
church  rocking,  men 

Have  hardly  known  what  to  believe, 
or  whether 

They  should  believe  in  anything ; the 
currents 

So  shift  and  change,  they  see  not 
how  they  are  borne, 

Nor  whither.  I conclude  the  King  a 
beast ; 

Verily  a lion  if  you  will — the  world 

A most  obedient  beast  and  fool  — 
myself 

Half  beast  and  fool  as  appertaining 
to  it ; 

Altho’  your  Lordship  hath  as  little  of 
each 

Cleaving  to  your  original  Adam-clay, 

As  may  be  consonant  with  mortality. 

Howard.  We  talk  and  Cranmer 
suffers. 

The  kindliest  man  I ever  knew;  see, 
see, 

I speak  of  him  in  the  past.  Unhappy 
land ! 

Hard-natured  Queen,  half-Spanish  in 
herself, 

And  grafted  on  the  hard-grain’d  stock 
of  Spain  — 

Her  life,  since  Philip  left  her,  and  she 
lost 

Her  fierce  desire  of  bearing  him  a 
child, 

Hath,  like  a brief  and  bitter  winter’s 
day, 

Gone  narrowing  down  and  darkening 
to  a close. 

There  will  be  more  conspiracies,  I 
fear. 

Paget.  Ay,  ay,  beware  of  France. 


Howard.  0 Paget,  Paget ! 

I have  seen  heretics  of  the  poorer 
sort, 

Expectant  of  the  rack  from  day  to 

day> 

To  whom  the  fire  were  welcome,  lying 
chain’d 

In  breathless  dungeons  over  steaming 
sewers, 

Fed  with  rank  bread  that  crawl’d  upon 
the  tongue, 

And  putrid  water,  every  drop  a worm* 
Until  they  died  of  rotted  limbs ; and 
then 

Cast  on  the  dunghill  naked,  and 
become 

Hideously  alive  again  from  head  to 
heel, 

Made  even  the  carrion-nosing  mongrel 
vomit 

With  hate  and  horror. 

Paget.  Kay,  you  sicken  me 

To  hear  you. 

Howard.  Fancy-sick ; these  things 
are  done, 

Done  right  against  the  promise  of  this 
Queen 
Twice  given. 

Paget.  No  faith  with  heretics,  my 
Lord ! 

Hist!  there  be  two  old  gossips  — gos- 
pellers, 

I take  it ; stand  behind  the  pillar  here  ; 
I warrant  you  they  talk  about  the 
burning. 

Enter  Two  Old  Women.  Joan,  and 
after  her  Tib. 

Joan.  Why,  it  be  Tib  ! 

Tib.  I cum  behind  tha,  gall,  and 
couldn’t  make  tha  hear.  Eh,  the  wind 
and  the  wet ! What  a day,  what  a 
day  ! nigh  upo’  judgement  daay  loike. 
Pwoaps  be  pretty  things,  Joan,  but 
they  wunt  set  i’  the  Lord’s  cheer  o’ 
that  daay. 

Joan.  I must  set  down  myself,  Tib  ; 
it  be  a var  waay  vor  my  owld  legs  up 
vro’  Islip.  Eh,  my  rheumatizy  be  that 
bad  howiver  be  I to  win  to  the  burnin’. 

Tib.  I should  saay  ’twur  ower  by 


586 


QUEEN  MARY. 


now.  I’d  ha’  been  here  avore,  but 
Dumble  wur  blow’d  wi’  the  wind,  and 
Dumble’s  the  best  milcher  in  Islip. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy’s  as  good  ’z  her. 

Tib.  Noa,  Joan. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy’s  butter’s  as 
good  ’z  hern. 

Tib.  Noa,  Joan. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy’s  cheeses  be  bet- 
ter. 

Tib.  Noa,  Joan. 

* Joan.  Eh,  then  ha’  thy  waay  wi’ 
me,  Tib  ; ez  thou  hast  wi’  thy  owld 
man. 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan,  and  my  owld  man 
wur  up  and  awaay  betimes  wi’  dree 
hard  eggs  for  a good  pleace  at  the 
burnin’;  and  barrin’  the  wet,  Hodge 
’ud  ha’  been  a-harrowin’  o’  white 
peasen  i’  the  outfield  — and  barrin’ 
the  wind,  Dumble  wur  blow’d  wi’  the 
wind,  so  ’z  we  was  forced  to  stick  her, 
but  we  fetched  her  round  at  last. 
Thank  the  Lord  therevore.  Dumble’s 
the  best  milcher  in  Islip. 

Joan.  Thou’s  thy  way  wi’  man  and 
beast,  Tib.  I wonder  at  tha’,  it  beats 
me  ! Eh,  but  I do  know  ez  Pwoaps 
and  vires  be  bad  things ; tell  ’ee  now, 
I heerd  summat  as  summun  towld 
summun  o’  owld  Bishop  Gardiner’s 
end  ; there  wur  an  owld  lord  a-cum  to 
dine  wi’  un,  and  a wur  so  owld  a 
couldn’t  bide  vor  his  dinner,  but  a had 
to  bide  howsomiver,  vor  “ I wunt 
dine,”  says  my  Lord  Bishop,  says  he, 
“ not  till  I hears  ez  Latimer  and  Rid- 
ley be  a-vire  ; ” and  so  they  bided  on 
and  on  till  vour  o’  the  clock,  till  his 
man  cum  in  post  vro’  here,  and  tells 
un  ez  the  vire  has  tuk  holt.  “Now,” 
says  the  Bishop,  says  he,  “ we’ll  gwo 
to  dinner ; ” and  the  owld  lord  fell  to 
’s  meat  wi’  a will,  God  bless  un  ! but 
Gardiner  wur  struck  down  like  by  the 
hand  o’  God  avore  a could  taste  a 
mossel,  and  a set  un  all  a-vire,  so  ’z 
the  tongue  on  un  cum  a-lolluping  out 
o’  ’is  mouth  as  black  as  a rat.  Thank 
the  Lord,  therevore. 

Paget.  The  fools  ! 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan ; and  Queen  Mary 


gwoes  on  a-burnin’  and  a-burnin’,  to 
get  her  baaby  born  ; but  all  her  burn- 
ins’  ’ill  never  burn  out  the  hypocrisy 
that  makes  the  water  in  her.  There’s 
nought  but  the  vire  of  God’s  hell  ez 
can  burn  out  that. 

Joan.  Thank  the  Lord,  therevore. 

Paget.  The  fools  ! 

Tib.  A-burnin’  and  a-burnin’,  and 
a-makin’  o’  volk  madder  and  madder ; 
but  tek  thou  my  word  vor't,  Joan, — 
and  I bean’t  wrong  not  twice  i’  ten 
year  — the  burnin’  o’  the  owld  arch- 
bishop ’ll  burn  the  Pwoap  out  o’  this 
’ere  land  vor  iver  and  iver. 

Howard.  Out  of  the  church,  you 
brace  of  cursed  crones, 

Or  I will  have  you  duck’d ! ( Women 
hurry  out.)  Said  I not  right  1 
For  how  should  reverend  prelate  or 
throned  prince 

Brook  for  an  hour  such  brute  malig- 
nity ? 

Ah,  what  an  acrid  wine  has  Luther 
brew’d ! 

Paget.  Pooh,  pooh,  my  Lord ! poor 
garrulous  country-wives. 

Buy  you  their  cheeses,  and  they’ll  side 
with  you  ; 

You  cannot  judge  the  liquor  from  the 
lees. 

Howard.  I think  that  in  some  sort 
we  may.  But  see, 

Enter  Peters. 

Peters,  my  gentleman,  an  honest 
Catholic, 

Who  follow’d  with  the  crowd  to  Cran- 
mer’s  fire. 

One  that  would  neither  misreport  nor 
lie, 

Not  to  gain  paradise  : no,  nor  if  the 
Pope, 

Charged  him  to  do  it  — he  is  white  as 
death. 

Peters,  how  pale  you  look  ! you  bring 
the  smoke 

Of  Cranmer’s  burning  with  you, 

Peters.  Twice  or  thrice 

The  smoke  of  Cranmer’s  burning  wrapt 
me  round. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


587 


Howard.  Peters,  you  know  me 
Catholic,  but  English. 

Did  he  die  bravely  1 Tell  me  that,  or 
leave 

All  else  untold. 

Peters.  My  Lord,  he  died  most 
bravely. 

Howard.  Then  tell  me  all. 

Paget.  Ay,  Master  Peters,  tell  us. 

Peters.  You  saw  him  how  he  past 
among  the  crowd  ; 

And  ever  as  he  walk’d  the  Spanish 
friars 

Still  plied  him  with  entreaty  and  re- 
proach : 

But  Cranmer,  as  the  helmsman  at  the 
helm 

Steers,  ever  looking  to  the  happy  ha- 
ven 

Where  he  shall  rest  at  night,  moved 
to  his  death  ; 

And  I could  see  that  many  silent 
hands 

Came  from  the  crowd  and  met  his 
own ; and  thus, 

When  we  had  come  where  Ridley 
burnt  with  Latimer, 

He,  with  a cheerful  smile,  as  one 
whose  mind 

Is  all  made  up,  in  haste  put  off  the 
rags 

They  had  mock’d  his  misery  with,  and 
all  in  white, 

His  long  white  beard,  which  he  had 
never  shaven 

Since  Henry’s  death,  down-sweeping 
to  the  chain 

Wherewith  they  bound  him  to  the 
stake,  he  stood 

More  like  an  ancient  father  of  the 
Church, 

Than  heretic  of  these  times  ; and  still 
the  friars 

Plied  him,  but  Cranmer  only  shook 
his  head, 

Or  answer’d  them  in  smiling  negatives ; 

Whereat  Lord  Williams  gave  a sud- 
den cry : — 

“ Make  short ! make  short ! ” and  so 
they  lit  the  wood. 

Then  Cranmer  lifted  his  left  hand  to 
heaven, 


And  thrust  his  right  into  the  bitter 
flame ; 

And  crying,  in  his  deep  voice,  more 
than  once, 

“ This  hath  offended  — this  unworthy 
hand  ! ” 

So  held  it  till  it  all  was  burn’d,  before 

The  flame  had  reach’d  his  body ; I 
stood  near  — 

Mark’d  him  — he  never  uttered  moan 
of  pain : 

He  never  stirr’d  or  writhed,  but,  like  a 
statue, 

Unmoving  in  the  greatness  of  the 
flame, 

Gave  up  the  ghost ; and  so  past  mar- 
tyr-like — 

Martyr  I may  not  call  him  — past  — 
but  whither  1 

Paget.  To  purgatory,  man,  to  pur- 
gatory. 

Peters.  Nay,  but,  my  Lord,  he  de- 
nied purgatory. 

Paget.  Why  then  to  heaven,  and 
God  ha’  mercy  on  him. 

Howard.  Paget,  despite  his  fearful 
heresies, 

I loved  the  man,  and  needs  must 
moan  for  him ; 

0 Cranmer ! 

Paget.  But  your  moan  is  useless 
now : 

Come  out,  my  Lord,  it  is  a world  of 
fools.  [ Exeunt . 

ACT  Y. 

SCENE  I.  — London.  Hall  in  the 
Palace. 

Queen,  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 

Heath.  Madam, 

1 do  assure  you,  that  it  must  be  look’d 

to  : 

Calais  is  but  ill-garrison’d,  in  Guisnes 

Are  scarce  two  hundred  men,  and  the 
French  fleet 

Rule  in  the  narrow  seas.  It  must  be 
look’d  to, 

If  war  should  fall  between  yourself 
and  France ; 

Or  you  will  lose  your  Calais. 


588 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Mary.  It  shall  be  look’d  to; 

I wish  you  a good  morning,  good  Sir 
Nicholas  : 

Here  is  the  King.  [ Exit  Heath. 

Enter  Philip. 

Philip.  Sir  Nicholas  tells  you  true. 
And  you  must  look  to  Calais  when  I go. 

Mary.  Go  ? must  you  go,  indeed  — 
again  — so  soon  ? 

Why,  nature’s  licensed  vagabond,  the 
swallow, 

That  might  live  always  in  the  sun’s 
warm  heart, 

Stays  longer  here  in  our  poor  north 
than  you : — 

Knows  where  he  nested — ever  comes 
again. 

Philip.  And,  Madam,  so  shall  I. 

Mary.  O,  will  you  ? will  you  ? 

I am  faint  with  fear  that  you  will 
come  no  more. 

Philip.  Ay,  ay;  but  many  voices 
call  me  hence. 

Mary.  Voices  — I hear  unhappy 
rumors  — nay, 

I say  not,  I believe.  What  voices 
call  you 

Dearer  than  mine  that  should  be  dear- 
est to  you  ? 

Alas,  my  Lord ! what  voices  and  how 
many  ? 

Philip.  The  voices  of  Castile  and 
Aragon, 

Granada,  Naples,  Sicily,  and  Milan, — 
The  voices  of  Franche-Comte,  and  the 
Netherlands, 

The  voices  of  Peru  and  Mexico, 
Tunis,  and  Oran,  and  the  Philippines, 
And  all  the  fair  spice-islands  of  the 
East. 

Mary  ( admiringly ).  You  are  the 
mightiest  monarch  upon  earth, 
I but  a little  Queen : and,  so  indeed, 
Need  you  the  more. 

Philip.  A little  Queen  ! but  when 
I came  to  wed  your  Majesty,  Lord 
Howard, 

Sending  an  insolent  shot  that  dash’d 
the  seas 

Upon  us,  made  us  lower  our  kingly  flag 
To  yours  of  England. 


Mary.  Howard  is  all  English  ! 

There  is  no  king,  not  were  he  ten  times 
king, 

Ten  times  our  husband,  but  must 
lower  his  flag 

To  that  of  England  in  the  seas  of 
England. 

Philip.  Is  that  your  answer  ? 

Mary.  Being  Queen  of  England, 

I have  none  other. 

Philip.  So. 

Mary.  But  wherefore  not 

Helm  the  huge  vessel  of  your  state, 
my  liege, 

Here  by  the  side  of  her  who  loves  you 
most  ? 

Philip.  No,  Madam,  no  ! a candle  in 
the  sun 

Is  all  but  smoke  — a star  beside  the 
moon 

Is  all  but  lost ; your  people  will  not 
crown  me  — 

Your  people  are  as  cheerless  as  your 
clime ; 

Hate  me  and  mine  : witness  the  brawls, 
the  gibbets. 

Here  swings  a Spaniard  — there  an 
Englishman  ; 

The  peoples  are  unlike  as  their  com- 
plexion ; 

Yet  will  I be  your  swallow  and  re- 
turn — 

But  now  I cannot  bide. 

Mary.  Not  to  help  me  ? 

They  hate  me  also  for  my  love  to  you, 

My  Philip  ; and  these  judgments  on 
the  land  — 

Harvestless  autumns,  horrible  agues, 
plague  — 

Philip.  The  blood  and  'sweat  of 
heretics  at  the  stake 

Is  God’s  best  dew  upon  the  barren  field. 

Burn  more  ! 

Mary.  I will,  I will;  and  you  will 
stay  ? 

Philip.  Have  I not  said  ? Madam, 
I came  to  sue 

Your  Council  and  yourself  to  declare 
war. 

Mary.  Sir,  there  are  many  English 
in  your  ranks 

To  help  your  battle. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


589 


Philip.  So  far,  good.  I say 

I came  to  sue  your  Council  and  your- 
self 

To  declare  war  against  the  King  of 
France. 

Mary.  Not  to  see  me  7 

Philip.  Ay,  Madam,  to  see  you. 

Unalterably  and  pesteringly  fond  ! 

[Aside. 

But,  soon  or  late  you  must  have  war 
with  France ; 

King  Henry  warms  your  traitors  at 
his  hearth. 

Carew  is  there,  and  Thomas  Stafford 
there. 

Courtenay,  belike  — 

Mary.  A fool  and  featherhead  ! 

Philip.  Ay,  but  they  use  his  name. 
In  brief,  this  Henry 

Stirs  up  your  land  against  you  to  the 
intent 

That  you  may  lose  your  English  her- 
itage. 

And  then,  your  Scottish  namesake 
marrying 

The  Dauphin,  he  would  weld  France, 
England,  Scotland, 

Into  one  sword  to  hack  at  Spain  and 
me. 

Mary.  And  yet  the  Pope  is  now 
colleagued  with  France; 

You  make  your  wars  upon  him  down 
in  Italy : — 

Philip,  can  that  be  well  ? 

Philip.  Content  you,  Madam  ; 

You  must  abide  my  judgment,  and 
my  father’s, 

Who  deems  it  a most  just  and  holy 
war. 

The  Pope  would  cast  the  Spaniard 
out  of  Naples : 

He  calls  us  worse  than  Jews,  Moors, 
Saracens. 

The  Pope  has  pushed  his  horns  be- 
yond his  mitre  — 

Beyond  his  province.  Now, 

Duke  Alva  will  but  touch  him  on  the 
horns, 

And  he  withdraws ; and  of  his  holy 
head  — 

For  Alva  is  true  son  of  the  true 
church  — 


No  hair  is  harm’d.  Will  you  not  help 
me  here  7 

Mary.  Alas  ! the  Council  will  not 
hear  of  war. 

They  say  your  wars  are  not  the  wars 
of  England. 

They  will  not  lay  more  taxes  on  a 
land 

So  hunger-nipt  and  wretched;  and 
you  know 

The  crown  is  poor.  We  have  given 
the  church-lands  back : 

The  nobles  would  not ; nay,  they  clapt 
their  hands 

Upon  their  swords  when  ask’d ; and 
therefore  God 

Is  hard  upon  the  people.  What’s  to 
be  done  7 

Sir,  I will  move  them  in  your  cause 
again, 

Andwewillraiseus  loans  and  subsidies 

Among  the  merchants  ; and  Sir 
Thomas  Gresham 

Will  aid  us.  There  is  Antwerp  and 
the  Jews. 

Philip.  Madam,  my  thanks. 

Mary.  And  you  will  stay  your 
going  7 

Philip.  And  further  to  discourage 
and  lay  lame 

The  plots  of  France,  altho’  you  love 
her  not, 

You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your 
heir. 

She  stands  between  you  and  the 
Queen  of  Scots. 

Mary.  The  Queen  of  Scots  at  least 
is  Catholic. 

Philip.  Ay,  Madam,  Catholic  ; but 
I will  not  have 

The  King  of  France  the  King  of  Eng- 
land too. 

Mary.  But  she’s  a heretic,  and, 
when  I am  gone, 

Brings  the  new  learning  back. 

Philip.  It  must  be  done. 

You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your 
heir. 

Mary.  Then  it  is  done ; but  you  will 
stay  your  going 

Somewhat  beyond  your  settled  pur- 
pose 7 


590 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Philip.  No ! 

Mary.  What,  not  one  day  ? 

Philip.  You  beat  upon  the  rock. 

Mary.  And  I am  broken  there. 

Philip.  Is  this  a place 

To  wail  in,  Madam  ? what ! a public 
hall. 

Go  in,  I pray  you. 

Mary.  I)o  not  seem  so  changed. 

Say  go ; but  only  say  it  lovingly. 

Philip.  You  do  mistake.  I am  not 
one  to  change. 

I never  loved  you  more. 

Mary.  Sire,  I obey  you. 

Come  quickly. 

Philip.  Ay.  [ Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria. 

Feria  (aside).  The  Queen  in  tears! 

Philip.  Feria ! 

Hast  thou  not  mark’d  — come  closer 
to  mine  ear  — 

How  doubly  aged  this  Queen  of  ours 
hath  grown 

Since  she  lost  hope  of  bearing  us  a 
child  ? 

Feria.  Sire,  if  your  Grace  hath 
mark’d  it,  so  have  I. 

Philip.  Hast  thou  not  likewise 
mark’d  Elizabeth, 

How  fair  and  royal  — like  a Queen, 
indeed  1 

Feria.  Allow  me  the  same  answer 
as  before  — 

That  if  your  Grace  hath  mark’d  her, 
so  have  I. 

Philip.  Good,  now ; methinks  my 
Queen  is  like  enough 

To  leave  me  by  and  by. 

Feria.  To  leave  you,  sire  ? 

Philip.  I mean  not  like  to  live. 
Elizabeth  — 

To  Philibert  of  Savoy,  as  you  know, 

We  meant  to  wed  her;  but  I am  not 
sure 

She  will  not  serve  me  better  — so  my 
Queen 

Would  leave  me  — as  — my  wife. 

Feria.  Sire,  even  so. 

Philip.  She  will  not  have  Prince 
Philibert  of  Savoy. 


Feria.  No,  sire. 

Philip.  I have  to  pray  you, 

some  odd  time, 

To  sound  the  Princess  carelessly  on 
this ; 

Not  as  from  me,  but  as  your  phantasy  ; 

And  tell  me  how  she  takes  it. 

Feria.  Sire,  I will. 

Philip.  I am  not  certain  but  that 
Philibert 

Shall  be  the  man  ; and  I shall  urge 
his  suit 

Upon  the  Queen,  because  I am  not 
certain : 

You  understand,  Feria. 

Feria . Sire,  I do. 

Philip.  And  if  you  be  not  secret 
in  this  matter, 

You  understand  me  there,  too  7 

Feria.  Sire,  I do. 

Philip.  You  must  be  sweet  and 
supple,  like  a Frenchman. 

She  is  none  of  those  who  loathe  the 
honeycomb.  [ Exit  Feria. 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard.  My  liege,  I bring  you 
goodly  tidings. 

Philip.  Well  1 

Renard.  There  will  be  war  with 
France,  at  last,  my  liege; 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  a bull-headed 
ass, 

Sailing  from  France,  with  thirty  Eng- 
lishmen, 

Hath  taken  Scarboro’  Castle,  north  of 
York ; 

Proclaims  himself  protector,  and  af- 
firms 

The  Queen  has  forfeited  her  right  to 
reign 

By  marriage  with  an  alien  — other 
things 

As  idle  ; a weak  Wyatt ! Little  doubt 

This  buzz  will  soon  be  silenced ; but 
the  Council 

(I  have  talk’d  with  some  already)  are 
for  war. 

This  the  fifth  conspiracy  hatch’d  in 
France ; 

They  show  their  teeth  upon  it ; and 
your  Grace, 


QUEEN  MARY. 


591 


So  you  will  take  advice  of  mine, 
should  stay 

Yet  for  awhile,  to  shape  and  guide  the 
event. 

Philip.  Good!  Renard,  I will  stay 
then. 

Renard.  Also,  sire, 

Might  I not  say  — to  please  your  wife, 
the  Queen  ? 

Philip.  Ay,  Renard,  if  you  care  to 
put  it  so.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — A Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Mary,  sitting : a rose  in  her  hand. 

Lady  Clarence.  Alice  in  the  back- 
ground. 

Mary.  Look ! I have  play’d  with 
this  poor  rose  so  long 
I have  broken  off  the  head. 

Lady  Clarence.  Your  Grace  hath 
been 

More  merciful  to  many  a rebel  head 
That  should  have  fallen,  and  may  rise 
again. 

Mary.  There  were  not  many  hang’d 
for  Wyatt’s  rising. 

Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  not  two  hun- 
dred. 

Mary.  I could  weep  for  them 

And  her,  and  mine  own  self  and  all 
the  world. 

Lady  Clarence.  For  her  'l  for  whom, 
your  Grace  'i 

Enter  Usher. 

Usher.  The  Cardinal. 

Enter  Cardinal  Pole.  (Mary'  rises.) 

Mary.  Reginald  Pole,  what  news 
hath  plagued  thy  heart  ? 

What  makes  thy  favor  like  the  blood- 
less head 

Fall’n  on  the  block,  and  held  up  by 
the  hair  1 
Philip  ? — 

Pole.  No,  Philip  is  as  warm  in  life 
As  ever. 

Mary.  Ay,  and  then  as  cold  as 
ever. 

Is  Calais  taken  ? 


Pole.  Cousin,  there  hath  chanced 
A sharper  harm  to  England  and  to 
Rome, 

Than  Calais  taken.  Julius  the  Third 
Was  ever  just,  and  mild,  and  father- 
like ; 

But  this  new  Pope  Caraffa,  Paul  the 
Fourth, 

Not  only  reft  me  of  that  legateship 
Which  Julius  gave  me,  and  the  legate- 
ship 

Annex’d  to  Canterbury  — nay,  but 
worse  — 

And  yet  I must  obey  the  Holy  Father, 
And  so  must  you,  good  cousin ; — 
worse  than  all, 

A passing  bell  toll’d  in  a dying  ear  — 
He  hath  cited  me  to  Rome,  for  heresy, 
Before  his  Inquisition. 

Mary.  I knew  it,  cousin, 

But  held  from  you  all  papers  sent  by 
Rome, 

That  you  might  rest  among  us,  till 
the  Pope, 

To  compass  which  I wrote  myself  to 
Rome, 

Reversed  his  doom,  and  that  you 
might  not  seem 
To  disobey  his  Holiness. 

Pole.  He  hates  Philip  ; 

He  is  all  Italian,  and  he  hates  the 
Spaniard ; 

He  cannot  dream  that  / advised  the 
war ; 

He  strikes  thro’  me  at  Philip  and 
yourself. 

Nay,  but  I know  it  of  old,  he  hates 
» me  too ; 

So  brands  me  in  the  stare  of  Christen- 
dom 
A heretic ! 

Now,  even  now,  when  bow’d  before 
my  time, 

The  house  half-ruin’d  ere  the  lease  be 
out ; 

When  I should  guide  the  Church  in 
peace  at  home, 

After  my  twenty  years  of  banishment. 
And  all  my  lifelong  labor  to  uphold 
The  primacy  — a heretic.  Long  ago, 
When  I was  ruler  in  the  patrimony, 

I was  too  lenient  to  the  Lutheran, 


592 


OUEEN  MARY. 


And  I and  learned  friends  among  our- 
selves 

Would  freely  canvass  certain  Luther- 
anisms. 

What  then,  he  knew  I was  no  Lutheran. 

A heretic  ! 

He  drew  this  shaft  against  me  to  the 
head, 

When  it  was  thought  I might  be 
chosen  Pope, 

But  then  withdrew  it.  In  full  con- 
sistory, 

When  I was  made  Archbishop,  he 
approved  me. 

And  how  should  he  have  sent  me 
Legate  hither, 

Deeming  me  heretic  ? and  what  heresy 
since  1 

But  he  was  evermore  mine  enemy, 

And  hates  the  Spaniard  — fiery-chol- 
eric, 

A drinker  of  black,  strong,  volcanic 
wines, 

That  ever  make  him  fierier.  I,  a 
heretic  “? 

Your  Highness  knows  that  in  pursu- 
ing heresy 

I have  gone  beyond  your  late  Lord 
Chancellor,  — 

He  cried  Enough ! enough ! before 
his  death. — 

Gone  beyond  him  and  mine  own  nat- 
ural man 

(It  was  God’s  cause) ; so  far  they  call 
me  now, 

The  scourge  and  butcher  of  their  Eng- 
lish church. 

Mari/.  Have  courage,  your  reward 
is  Heaven  itself. 

Pole.  They  groan  amen ; they 
swarm  into  the  fire 

Like  flies  — for  what  1 no  dogma. 
They  know  nothing ; 

They  burn  for  nothing. 

Mary.  You  have  done  your  best. 

Pole.  Have  done  my  best,  and  as  a 
faithful  son, 

That  all  day  long  hath  wrought  his 
father’s  work, 

When  back  he  comes  at  evening  hath 
the  door 


Shut  on  him  by  the  father  whom  he 
loved, 

His  early  follies  cast  into  his  teeth. 

And  the  poor  son  turn’d  out  into  the 
street 

To  sleep,  to  die  — I shall  die  of  it, 
cousin. 

Mary.  I pray  you  be  not  so  discon- 
solate ; 

I still  will  do  mine  utmost  with  the 
Pope. 

Poor  cousin ! 

Have  not  I been  the  fast  friend  of 
your  life 

Since  mine  began,  and  it  was  thought 
we  two 

Might  make  one  flesh,  and  cleave 
unto  each  other 

As  man  and  wife  ? 

Pole.  Ah,  cousin,  I remember 

How  I would  dandle  you  upon  my 
knee 

At  lisping-age.  I watch’d  you  danc- 
ing once 

With  your  huge  father  ; he  look’d  the 
Great  Harry, 

You  but  his  cockboat;  prettily  you 
did  it, 

And  innocently.  No — we  were  not 
made 

One  flesh  in  happiness,  no  happiness 
here  ; 

But  now  we  are  made  one  flesh  in 
misery ; 

Our  bridemaids  are  not  lovely  — Dis- 
appointment, 

Ingratitude,  Injustice,  Evil-tongue, 

Labor-in-vain. 

Mary.  Surely,  not  all  in  vain. 

Peace,  cousin,  peace ! I am  sad  at 
heart  myself. 

Pole.  Our  altar  is  a mound  of  dead 
men’s  clay, 

Dug  from  the  grave  that  yawns  for 
us  beyond ; 

And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind 
the  Groom, 

And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind 
the  Bride  — 

Mary.  Have  you  been  looking  at 
the  “ Dance  of  Death  ” 'i 


QUEEN  MARY. 


593 


Pole.  No;  but  these  libellous  papers 
which  I found 

Strewn  in  your  palace.  Look  you 
here  — the  Pope 

Pointing  at  me  with  “ Pole,  the  here- 
tic, 

Thou  hast  burnt  others,  do  thou  burn 
thyself, 

Or  I will  burn  thee ; ” and  this  other  ; 
see ! — 

“ We  pray  continually  for  the  death 

Of  our  accursed  Queen  and  Cardinal 
Pole.” 

This  last  — I dare  not  read  it  her. 

\Aside. 

Mary.  Away ! 

Why  do  you  bring  me  these  ? 

I thought  you  knew  me  better.  I 
never  read, 

I tear  them ; they  come  back  upon  my 
dreams. 

The  hands  that  write  them  should  be 
burnt  clean  off 

As  Cranmer’s,  and  the  fiends  that 
utter  them 

Tongue-torn  with  pincers,  lash’d  to 
death,  or  lie 

Famishing  in  black  cells,  while  fam- 
ish’d rats 

Eat  them  alive.  Why  do  they  bring 
me  these  1 

Do  you  mean  to  drive  me  mad  ? 

Pole.  I had  forgotten 

How  these  poor  libels  trouble  you. 
Your  pardon, 

Sweet  cousin,  and  farewell ! “ O bub- 
ble world, 

Whose  colors  in  a moment  break  and 

fly !” 

Why,  who  said  that  ? I know  not  — 
true  enough ! 

[Puts  up  the  papers,  all  hut  the  last, 
which  falls.  Exit  Pole. 

Alice.  If  Cranmer’s  spirit  were  a 
mocking  one, 

And  heard  these  two,  there  might  be 
sport  for  him.  [Aside. 

Mary.  Clarence,  they  hate  me ; 
even  while  I speak 

There  lurks  a silent  dagger,  listening 

In  some  dark  closet,  some  long  gal- 
lery, drawn, 


And  panting  for  my  blood  as  I go  by. 

Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  Madam,  there 
be  loyal  papers  too, 

And  I have  often  found  them. 

Mary.  Find  me  one  ! 

Lady  Clarence.  Ay,  Madam ; but 
Sir  Nicholas  Heath,  the  Chan- 
cellor, 

Would  see  your  Highness. 

Mary.  Wherefore  should  I see 
him  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  Well,  Madam,  he 
may  bring  you  news  from 
Philip. 

Mary.  So,  Clarence. 

Lady  Clarence.  Let  me  first  put 
up  your  hair ; 

It  tumbles  all  abroad. 

Mary.  And  the  gray  dawn 

Of  an  old  age  that  never  will  be  mine 

Is  all  the  clearer  seen.  No,  no  ; what 
matters  ? 

Forlorn  I am,  and  let  me  look  forlorn. 

Enter  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 

Heath.  I bring  your  Majesty  such 
grievous  news 

I grieve  to  bring  it.  Madam,  Calais 
is  taken. 

Mary.  What  traitor  spoke  1 Here, 
let  my  cousin  Pole 

Seize  him  and  burn  him  for  a Lu- 
theran. 

Heath.  Her  Highness  is  unwell.  I 
will  retire. 

L,ady  Clarence.  Madam,  your  Chan- 
cellor, Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 

Mary.  Sir  Nicholas ! I am  stunn’d 
— Nicholas  Heath  ? 

Methought  some  traitor  smote  me  on 
the  head. 

What  said  you,  my  good  Lord,  that 
our  brave  English 

Had  sallied  out  from  Calais  and 
driven  back 

The  Frenchmen  from  their  trenches  ? 

Heath.  Alas ! no. 

That  gateway  to  the  mainland  over 
which 

Our  flag  hath  floated  for  two  hundred 
years 

Is  France  again. 


594 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Mary.  So  ; but  it  is  not  lost  — 

Not  yet.  Send  out : let  England  as  of 
old 

Rise  lionlike,  strike  hard  and  deep 
into 

The  prey  they  are  rending  from  her 
— ay,  and  rend 

The  renders  too.  Send  out,  send  out, 
and  make 

Musters  in  all  the  counties ; gather 
all 

From  sixteen  years  to  sixty;  collect 
the  fleet ; 

Let  every  craft  that  carries  sail  and 
gun 

Steer  toward  Calais.  Guisnes  is  not 
taken  yet  ? 

Heath.  Guisnes  is  not  taken  yet. 

Mary.  There  is  yet  hope. 

Heath.  Ah,  Madam,  but  your  peo- 
ple are  so  cold ; 

I do  much  fear  that  England  will  not 
care. 

Metliinks  there  is  no  manhood  left 
among  us. 

Mary.  Send  out ; I am  too  weak  to 
stir  abroad  : 

Tell  my  mind  to  the  Council  — to  the 
Parliament : 

Proclaim  it  to  the  winds.  Thou  art 
cold  thyself 

To  babble  of  their  coldness.  0 would 
I were 

My  father  for  an  hour ! Away  now  — 
Quick!  [Exit  Heath. 

I hoped  I had  served  God  with  all  my 
might ! 

It  seems  I have  not.  Ah ! much 
heresy 

Shelter’d  in  Calais.  Saints,  I have 
rebuilt 

Your  shrines,  set  up  your  broken 
images ; 

Be  comfortable  to  me.  Suffer  not 

That  my  brief  reign  in  England  be 
defamed 

Thro’  all  her  angry  chronicles  here- 
after 

By  loss  of  Calais.  Grant  me  Calais. 
Philip, 

We  have  made  war  upon  the  Holy 
Father 


All  for  your  sake : what  good  could 
come  of  that  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  No,  Madam,  not 
against  the  Holy  Father; 

You  did  but  help  King  Philip’s  war 
with  France, 

Your  troops  were  never  down  in  Italy. 

Mary.  I am  a byword.  Heretic  and 
rebel 

Point  at  me  and  make  merry.  Philip 
gone ! 

And  Calais  gone  ! Time  that  I were 
gone  too ! 

Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  if  the  fetid 
gutter  had  a voice 

And  cried  I was  not  clean,  what 
should  I care  ? 

Or  you,  for  heretic  cries  ? And  I 
believe, 

Spite  of  your  melancholy  Sir  Nicholas, 

Y our  England  is  as  loyal  as  myself. 

Mary  ( seeing  the  paper  dropt  by  Pole). 

There ! there  ! another  paper ! 
Said  you  not 

Many  of  these  were  loyal  ? Shall  I 
try 

If  this  be  one  of  such  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  Let  it  be,  let  it  be. 

God  pardon  me ! I have  never  yet 
found  one.  [Aside. 

Mary  [reads).  “ Your  people  hate 
you  as  your  husbandhatesyou.” 

Clarence,  Clarence, what  have  I done? 
what  sin 

Beyond  all  grace,  all  pardon?  Mother 
of  God, 

Thou  knowest  woman  never  meant  so 
well, 

And  fared  so  ill  in  this  disastrous 
world. 

My  people  hate  me  and  desire  my 
death. 

Lady  Clarence.  No,  Madam,  no. 

Mary.  My  husband  hates  me,  and 
desires  my  death. 

Lady  Clarence.  No,  Madam;  these 
are  libels. 

Mary.  I hate  myself,  and  I desire 
my  death. 

Lady  Clarence.  Long  live  your 
Majesty!  Shall  Alice  sing 
you 


QUEEN  MARY. 


595 


One  of  her  pleasant  songs?  Alice, 
my  child, 

Bring  us  your  lute  (Alice  <7oes).  They 
say  the  gloom  of  Saul 

Was  lighten’d  by  young  David’s  harp. 

Mary.  Too  young ! 

And  never  knew  a Philip. 

Re-enter  Alice. 

Give  me  the  lute. 

He  hates  me ! 

( She  sings.) 

Hapless  doom  of  woman  happy  in  betroth- 
ing! 

Beauty  passes  like  a breath  and  love  is  lost 
in  loathing : 

Low,  my  lute;  speak  low,  my  lute,  but  say 
the  world  is  nothing  — 

Low,  lute,  Tow! 

Love  will  hover  round  the  flowers  when  they 
first  awaken; 

Love  will  fly  the  fallen  leaf,  and  not  be  over- 
taken ; 

Low,  my  lute ! oh  low,  my  lute ! we  fade  and 
are  forsaken  — 

Low,  dear  lute,  low ! 

Take  it  away ! not  low  enough  for  me  ! 

Alice.  Your  Grace  hath  a low  voice. 

Mary.  How  dare  you  say  it  ? 

Even  for  that  he  hates  me.  A low 
voice 

Lost  in  a wilderness  where  none  can 
hear ! 

A voice  of  shipwreck  on  a shoreless 
sea! 

A low  voice  from  the  dust  and  from 
the  grave 

( Sitting  on  the  ground).  There,  am  I 
low  enough  now  ? 

Alice.  Good  Lord ! how  grim  and 
ghastly  looks  her  Grace, 

With  both  her  knees  drawn  upward  to 
her  chin. 

There  was  an  old-world  tomb  beside 
my  father’s, 

And  this  was  open’d,  and  the  dead 
were  found 

Sitting,  and  in  this  fashion ; she  looks 
a corpse. 

Enter  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Madam,  the  Count 
de  Feria  waits  without, 

In  hopes  to  see  your  Highness. 


Lady  Clarence  ( pointing  to  Mary). 
Wait  he  must  — 

Her  trance  again.  She  neither  sees 
nor  hears, 

And  may  not  speak  for  hours. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Unhappiest 

Of  Queens  and  wives  and  women ! 

Alice  (in  the  foreground  with  Lady 
Magdalen.)  And  all  along 
Of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Not  so  loud ! Our 
Clarence  there 

Sees  ever  such  an  aureole  round  the 
Queen, 

It  gilds  the  greatest  wronger  of  her 
peace, 

WIiq  stands  the  nearest  to  her. 

Alice.  Ay,  this  Philip ; 

I used  to  love  the  Queen  with  all  my 
heart  — 

God  help  me,  but  methinks  I love  her 
less 

For  such  a dotage  upon  such  a man. 

I would  I were  as  tall  and  strong  as 
you. 

Lady  Magdalen.  I seem  half-shamed 
at  times  to  be  so  tall. 

Alice.  You  are  the  stateliest  deer  in 
all  the  herd  — 

Beyond  his  aim  — but  I am  small  and 
scandalous, 

And  love  to  hear  bad  tales  of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Why  ? 

I never  heard  him  utter  worse  of  you 

Than  that  you  were  low-statured. 

Alice.  Does  he  think 

Low  stature  is  low  nature,  or  all  wom- 
en’s 

Low  as  his  own  ? 

Lady  Magdalen.  There  you  strike 
in  the  nail. 

This  coarseness  is  a want  of  phantasy. 

It  is  the  low  man  thinks  the  woman 
low  ; 

Sin  is  too  dull  to  see  beyond  himself. 

Alice.  Ah,  Magdalen,  sin  is  bold  as 
well  as  dull. 

How  dared  he  ? 

Lady  Magdalen.  Stupid  soldiers  oft 
are  bold. 

Poor  lads,  they  see  not  what  the  gen- 
eral sees, 


596 


QUEEN  MARY. 


A risk  of  utter  ruin.  I am  not 

Beyond  his  aim,  or  was  not. 

Alice.  Who  ? Not  you  ? 

Tell,  tell  me ; save  my  credit  with 
myself. 

Lady  Magdalen.  I never  breathed 
it  to  a bird  in  the  eaves, 

Would  not  for  all  the  stars  and 
maiden  moon 

Our  drooping  Queen  should  know ! In 
Hampton  Court 

My  window  look’d  upon  the  corri- 
dor; 

And  I was  robing ; — this  poor  throat 
of  mine, 

Barer  than  I should  wish  a man  to  see 
it,  — 

When  he  we  speak  of  drove  the  win- 
dow back, 

And,  like  a thief,  push’d  in  his  royal 
hand ; 

But  by  God’s  providence  a good  stout 
staff 

Lay  near  me ; and  you  know  me 
strong  of  arm  ; 

I do  believe  I lamed  his  Majesty’s 

For  a day  or  two,  tho’,  give  the  Devil 
his  due, 

I never  found  he  bore  me  any  spite. 

Alice.  I would  she  could  have  wed- 
ded that  poor  youth, 

My  Lord  of  Devon — light  enough, 
God  knows, 

And  mixt  with  Wyatt’s  rising  — and 
the  boy 

Not  out  of  him  — but  neither  cold, 
coarse,  cruel, 

And  more  than  all  — no  Spaniard. 

Lady  Clarence.  Not  so  loud. 

Lord  Devon,  girls ! what  are  you 
whispering  here  ? 

Alice.  Probing  an  old  state-secret — 
how  it  chanced 

That  this  young  Earl  was  sent  on 
foreign  travel, 

Not  lost  his  head. 

Lady  Clarence.  There  was  no  proof 
against  him. 

Alice.  Nay,  Madam ; did  not  Gardi- 
ner intercept 

A letter  which  the  Count  de  Noailles 
wrote 


To  that  dead  traitor  Wyatt,  with  full 
proof 

Of  Courtenay’s  treason  ? What  be- 
came of  that  'i 

Lady  Clarence.  Some  say  that 
Gardiner,  out  of  love  for  him, 

Burnt  it,  and  some  relate  that  it  was 
lost 

When  Wyatt  sack’d  the  Chancellor’s 
house  in  Southwark. 

Let  dead  things  rest. 

Alice.  Ay,  and  with  him  who  died 

Alone  in  Italy. 

Lady  Clarence.  Much  changed,  I 
hear, 

Had  put  off  levity  and  put  graveness 
on. 

The  foreign  courts  report  him  in  his 
manner 

Noble  as  his  young  person  and  old 
. shield. 

It  might  be  so  — but  all  is  over 
now ; 

He  caught  a chill  in  the  lagoons  of 
Venice, 

And  died  in  Padua. 

Mary  ( looking  up  suddenly).  Died 
in  the  true  faith  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  Ay,  Madam,  happily. 

Mary.  Happier  he  than  I. 

Lady  Magdalen.  It  seems  her  High- 
ness hath  awaken’d.  Think  you 

That  I might  dare  to  tell  her  that  the 
Count 

Mary.  I will  see  no  man  hence  for 
evermore, 

Saving  my  confessor  and  my  cousin 
Pole. 

Lady  Magdalen.  It  is  the  Count  de 
Feria,  my  dear  lady. 

Mary.  What  Count  ? 

Lady  Magdalen.  The  Count  de 
Feria,  from  his  Majesty 

King  Philip. 

Mary.  Philip  ! quick  ! loop  up  my 
hair ! 

Throw  cushions  on  that  seat,  and  make 
it  throne-like. 

Arrange  my  dress  — the  gorgeous 
Indian  shawl 

That  Philip  brought  me  in  our  happy 
days ! — 


QUEEN  MARY. 


597 


That  covers  all.  So  — am  I somewhat 
Queenlike, 

Bride  of  the  mightiest  sovereign  upon 
earth  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  Ay,  so  your  Grace 
would  bide  a moment  yet. 

Mary.  No,  no,  he  brings  a letter. 
I may  die 

Before  I read  it.  Let  me  see  him  at 
once. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria  [kneels). 

Feria.  I trust  your  Grace  is  well. 
[Aside)  How  her  hand  burns  ! 

Mary.  I am  not  well,  but  it  will 
better  me, 

Sir  Count,  to  read  the  letter  which 
you  bring. 

Feria.  Madam,  I bring  no  letter. 

Mary.  How  ! no  letter  ? 

Feria.  His  Highness  is  so  vex’d  with 
strange  affairs  — 

Mary.  That  his  own  wife  is  no  affair 
of  his. 

Feria.  Nay,  Madam,  nay  ! he  sends 
his  veriest  love, 

And  says,  he  will  come  quickly. 

Mary.  Doth  he,  indeed  ? 

You,  sir,  do  you  remember  what  you 
said 

When  last  you  came  to  England  1 

Feria.  Madam,  I brought 

My  King’s  congratulations ; it  was 
hoped 

Your  Highness  was  once  more  in  happy 
state 

To  give  him  an  heir  male. 

Mary.  Sir,  you  said  more  ; 

You  said  he  would  come  quickly.  I 
had  horses 

On  all  the  road  from  Dover,  day  and 
night ; 

On  all  the  road  from  Harwich,  night 
and  day ; 

But  the  child  came  not,  and  the  hus- 
band came  not ; 

And  yet  he  will  come  quickly.  . . 
Thou  hast  learnt 

Thy  lesson,  and  I mine.  There  is  no 
need 

For  Philip  so  to  shame  himself  again. 

Return, 


And  tell  him  that  I know  he  comes  no 
more. 

Tell  him  at  last  I know  his  love  is 
dead, 

And  that  I am  in  state  to  bring  forth 
death  — 

Thou  art  commission’d  to  Elizabeth, 

And  not  to  me  ! 

Feria.  Mere  compliments  and 
wishes. 

But  shall  I take  some  message  from 
your  Grace  ? 

Mary.  Tell  her  to  come  and  close 
my  dying  eyes, 

And  wear  my  crown,  and  dance  upon 
my  grave. 

Feria.  Then  I may  say  your  Grace 
will  see  your  sister  1 

Your  Grace  is  too  low-spirited.  Air 
and  sunshine. 

I would  we  had  you,  Madam,  in  our 
warm  Spain. 

You  droop  in  your  dim  London. 

Mary.  Have  him  away  ! 

I sicken  of  his  readiness. 

Lady  Clarence.  My  Lord  Count, 

Her  Highness  is  too  ill  for  colloquy. 

Feria  [kneels,  and  kisses  her  hand). 
I wish  her  Highness  better. 
[Aside)  How  her  hand  burns  ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.  — A House  Near 
London. 

Elizabeth,  Steward  of  the  House- 
hold, Attendants. 

Elizabeth.  There’s  half  an  angel 
wrong’d  in  your  account ; 

Methinks  I am  all  angel,  that  I bear 
it 

Without  more  ruffling.  Cast  it  o’er 
again. 

Steward.  I were  whole  devil  if  I 
wrong’d  you,  Madam. 

[Exit  Steward. 

Attendant.  The  Count  de  Feria  from 
the  King  of  Spain. 

Elizabeth.  Ah  ! — let  him  enter. 
Nay,  you  need  not  go  : 

[ To  her  Ladies. 


598 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Remain  within  the  chamber,  but  apart. 

We’ll  have  no  private  conference. 
Welcome  to  England! 

Enter  Eeria. 

Feria.  Pair  island  star ! 

Elizabeth.  I shine  ! What  else,  Sir 
Count  1 

Feria.  As  far  as  France,  and  into 
Philip’s  heart. 

My  King  would  know  if  you  be  fairly 
served, 

And  lodged,  and  treated. 

Elizabeth.  You  see  the  lodging,  sir, 

I am  well-served,  and  am  in  everything 

Most  loyal  and  most  grateful  to  the 
Queen. 

Feria.  You  should  be  grateful  to 
my  master,  too. 

He  spoke  of  this ; and  unto  him  you 
owe 

That  Mary  hath  acknowledged  you 
her  heir. 

Elizabeth.  No,  not  to  her  nor  him  ; 
but  to  the  people, 

Who  know  my  right,  and  love  me,  as 
I love 

The  people  ! whom  God  aid ! 

Feria.  You  will  be  Queen, 

And,  were  I Philip  — 

Elizabeth.  Wherefore  pause  you  — 
what  ? 

Feria.  Nay,  but  I speak  from  mine 
own  self,  not  him  ; 

Your  royal  sister  cannot  last ; your 
hand 

Will  be  much  coveted  ! What  a deli- 
cate one ! 

Our  Spanish  ladies  have  none  such  — 
and  there, 

Were  you  in  Spain,  this  fine  fair  gos- 
samer gold  — 

Like  sun-gilt  breathings  on  a frosty 
dawn  — 

That  hovers  round  your  shoulder  — 

Elizabeth.  Is  it  so  fine  ? 

Troth,  some  have  said  so. 

Feria.  — would  be  deemed  a mira- 
cle. 

Elizabeth.  Your  Philip  hath  gold 
hair  and  golden  beard ; 


There  must  be  ladies  many  with  hair 
like  mine. 

Feria.  Some  few  of  Gothic  blood 
have  golden  hair, 

But  none  like  yours. 

Elizabeth.  I am  happy  you  approve 
it. 

Feria.  But  as  to  Philip  and  your 
Grace  — consider,  — 

If  such  a one  as  you  should  match 
with  Spain, 

What  hinders  but  that  Spain  and 
England  join’d, 

Should  make  the  mightiest  empire 
earth  has  known. 

Spain  would  be  England  on  her  seas, 
and  England 

Mistress  of  the  Indies. 

Elizabeth.  It  may  chance,  that 
England 

Will  be  the  Mistress  of  the  Indies  yet, 

Without  the  help  of  Spain. 

Feria.  Impossible ; 

Except  you  put  Spain  down. 

Wide  of  the  mark  ev’n  for  a madman’s 
dream. 

Elizabeth.  Perhaps ; but  we  have 
seamen.  Count  de  Feria, 

I take  it  that  the  King  hath  spoken 
to  you ; 

But  is  Don  Carlos  such  a goodly 
match  % 

Feria.  Don  Carlos,  Madam,  is  but 
twelve  years  old. 

Elizabeth.  Ay,  tell  the  King  that  I 
will  muse  upon  it ; 

He  is  my  good  friend,  and  I would 
keep  him  so ; 

But  — he  would  have  me  Catholic  of 
Rome, 

And  that  I scarce  can  be ; and,  sir,  till 
now 

My  sister’s  marriage,  and  my  father’s 
marriages, 

Make  me  full  fain  to  live  and  die  a 
maid. 

But  I am  much  beholden  to  your 
King. 

Have  you  aught  else  to  tell  me  1 

Feria.  Nothing,  Madam, 

Save  that  methouglit  I gather’d  from 
the  Queen 


QUEEN  MARY. 


599 


That  she  would  see  your  Grace  before 
she  — died. 

Elizabeth.  God’s  death  ! and  where- 
fore spake  you  not  before ? 

We  dally  with  our  lazy  moments  here, 

And  hers  are  number’d.  Horses 
there,  without ! 

I am  much  beholden  to  the  King,  your 
master. 

Why  did  you  keep  me  prating  ? 
Horses,  there  ! 

[Exit  Elizabeth,  etc. 

Feria.  So  from  a clear  sky  falls  the 
thunderbolt ! 

Don  Carlos  ? Madam,  if  you  marry 
Philip, 

Then  I and  he  will  snaffle  your  “ God’s 
death,” 

And  brake  your  paces  in,  and  make 
you  tame ; 

God’s  death,  forsooth  — you  do  not 
know  King  Philip.  [ Exit . 


SCENE  IV. — London.  Before 
the  Palace. 

A light  burning  within.  Voices  of  the 
night  passing. 

First.  Is  not  yon  light  in  the 
Queen’s  chamber  ? 

Second.  Ay, 

They  say  she’s  dying. 

First.  So  is  Cardinal  Pole. 

May  the  great  angels  join  their  wings, 
and  make 

Down  for  their  heads  to  heaven ! 

Second.  Amen.  Come  on. 

[Exeunt. 

Two  Others. 

First.  There’s  the  Queen’s  light. 
I hear  she  cannot  live. 

Second.  God  curse  her  and  her 
Legate ! Gardiner  burns 
Already;  but  to  pay  them  full  in  kind, 
The  hottest  hold  in  all  the  devil’s  den 
Were  but  a sort  of  winter;  sir,  in 
Guernsey, 

I watch’d  a woman  burn ; and  in  her 
agony 


The  mother  came  upon  her  — a child 
was  born  — 

And,  sir,  they  hurl’d  it  back  into  the 
fire, 

That,  being  but  baptised  in  fire,  the 
babe 

Might  be  in  fire  for  ever.  Ah,  good 
neighbor, 

There  should  be  something  fierier  than 
fire 

To  yield  them  their  deserts. 

First.  Amen  to  all. 

Your  wish,  and  further. 

A Third  Voice.  Deserts  ! Amen  to 
what?  Whose  deserts?  Yours? 
You  have  a gold  ring  on  your  finger, 
and  soft  raiment  about  your  body; 
and  is  not  the  woman  up  yonder  sleep- 
ing after  all  she  has  done,  in  peace  and 
quietness,  on  a soft  bed,  in  a closed 
room,  with  light,  fire,  physic,  tend- 
ance ; and  I have  seen  the  true  men 
of  Christ  lying  famine-dead  by  scores, 
and  under  no  ceiling  but  the  cloud  that 
wept  on  them,  not  for  them. 

First.  Friend,  tho’  so  late,  it  is  not 
safe  to  preach. 

You  had  best  go  home.  What  are 
you  ? 

Third.  What  am  I ? One  who  cries 
continually  with  sweat  and  tears  to 
the  Lord  God  that  it  would  please  Him 
out  of  His  infinite  love  to  break  down 
all  kingship  and  queenship,  all  priest- 
hood and  prelacy ; to  cancel  and 
abolish  all  bonds  of  human  allegiance, 
all  the  magistracy,  all  the  nobles,  and 
all  the  wealthy  ; and  to  send  us  again, 
according  to  His  promise,  the  one  King, 
the  Christ,  and  all  things  in  common, 
as  in  the  day  of  the  first  church,  when 
Christ  Jesus  was  King. 

First.  If  ever  I heard  a madman, 
— let’s  away ! 

Why,  you  long-winded Sir,  you 

go  beyond  me. 

I pride  myself  on  being  moderate. 
Good  night ! Go  home.  Besides,  you 
curse  so  loud, 

The  watch  will  hear  you.  Get  you 
home  at  once.  [ Exeunt . 


600 


QUEEN  MARY. 


SCENE  V. — London.  A Room  in 
the  Palace. 

A Gallery  on  one  side.  The  moonlight 
streaming  through  a range  of  windows 
on  the  wall  opposite.  Mary,  Lady 
Clarence,  Lady  Magdalen 
Dacres,  Alice.  Queen  pacing  the 
Gallery.  A writing-table  in  front. 
Queen  comes  to  the  table  and  writes 
and  goes  again , pacing  the  Gallery. 

Lady  Clarence.  Mine  eyes  are  dim  : 
what  hath  she  written  ? read. 
Alice.  “ I am  dying,  Philip ; come 
to  me.” 

Lady  Magdalen.  There  — up  and 
down,  poor  lady,  up  and  down. 
Alice.  And  how  her  shadow  crosses 
one  by  one 

The  moonlight  casements  pattern’d  on 
the  wall, 

Following  her  like  her  sorrow.  She 
turns  again. 

[Queen  sits  and  writes,  and  goes  again. 
Lady  Clarence.  What  hath  she 
written  now  ? 

Alice.  Nothing ; but  “ come,  come, 
come,”  and  all  awry, 

And  blotted  by  her  tears.  This  can- 
not last.  [Queen  returns. 

Mary.  I whistle  to  the  bird  has 
broken  cage, 

And  all  in  vain.  [Sitting  down. 

Calais  gone  — Guisnes  gone,  too  — 
and  Philip  gone ! 

Lady  Clarence.  Dear  Madam,  Philip 
is  but  at  the  wars ; 

I cannot  doubt  but  that  he  comes 
again  ; 

And  he  is  with  you  in  a measure  still. 

I never  look’d  upon  so  fair  a likeness 

As  your  great  King  in  armor  there, 
his  hand 

Upon  his  helmet. 

[. Pointing  to  the  portrait  of  Philip  on 
the  wall. 

Mary.  Doth  he  not  look  noble  ? 

I had  heard  of  him  in  battle  over 
seas, 

And  I would  have  my  warrior  all  in 
arms. 


He  said  it  was  not  courtly  to  stand 
helmeted 

Before  the  Queen.  He  had  his  gra- 
cious moment, 

Altho’  you’ll  not  believe  me.  How 
he  smiles 

As  if  he  loved  me  yet ! 

Lady  Clarence.  And  so  he  does. 

Mary.  He  never  loved  me  — nay, 
he  could  not  love  me. 

It  was  his  father’s  policy  against 
France. 

I am  eleven  years  older  than  he, 

Poor  boy  ! [ Weeps. 

Alice.  That  was  a lusty  boy  of 
twenty-seven ; [Aside. 

Poor  enough  in  God’s*  grace  ! 

Mary.  — And  all  in  vain  ! 

The  Queen  of  Scots  is  married  to  the 
Dauphin, 

And  Charles,  the  lord  of  this  low 
world,  is  gone ; 

And  all  his  wars  and  wisdoms  past 
away  ; 

And  in  a moment  I shall  follow 
him. 

Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  dearest  Lady, 
see  your  good  physician. 

Mary , Drugs  — but  he  knows  they 
cannot  help  me  — says 

That  rest  is  all  — tells  me  I must  not 
think  — 

That  I must  rest  — I shall  rest  by  and 
by. 

Catch  the  wild  cat,  cage  him,  and  when 
he  springs 

And  maims  himself  against  the  bars, 
say  “ rest  ” : 

Why,  you  must  kill  him  if  you  would 
have  him  rest  — 

Dead  or  alive  you  cannot  make  him 
happy. 

Lady  Clarence.  Your  Majesty  has 
lived  so  pure  a life, 

And  done  such  mighty  things  by  Holy 
Church, 

I trust  that  God  will  make  you  happy 
yet. 

Mary.  What  is  the  strange  thing 
happiness  'i  Sit  down  here  : 

Tell  me  thine  happiest  hour. 

Lady  Clarence.  I will,  if  that 


QUEEN  MARY. 


601 


May  make  your  Grace  forget  yourself 
a little. 

There  runs  a shallow  brook  across  our 
field 

For  twenty  miles,  where  the  black 
crow  flies  five, 

And  doth  so  bound  and  babble  all  the 
way 

As  if  itself  were  happy.  It  was  May- 
time, 

And  I was  walking  with  the  man  I 
loved. 

I loved  him,  but  I thought  I was  not 
loved. 

And  both  were  silent,  letting  the  wild 
brook 

Speak  for  us  — till  he  stoop’d  and 
gather’d  one 

From  out  abed  of  thick  forget-me-nots, 

Look’d  hard  and  sweet  at  me,  and 
gave  it  me. 

I took  it,  tho’  I did  not  know  I took  it, 

And  put  it  in  my  bosom,  and  all  at 
once 

I felt  his  arms  about  me,  and  his  lips  — 
Mary.  O God ! I have  been  too 
slack,  too  slack ; 

There  are  Hot  Gospellers  even  among 
our  guards  — 

Nobles  wre  dared  not  touch.  We  have 
but  burnt 

The  heretic  priest,  workmen,  and 
women  and  children. 

Wet,  famine,  ague,  fever,  storm, 
wreck,  wrath,  — 

We  have  so  play’d  the  coward ; but  by 
God’s  grace, 

We’ll  follow  Philip’s  leading,  and  set 
up 

The  Holy  Office  here  — garner  the 
wheat, 

And  burn  the  tares  with  unquenchable 
fire ! 

Burn ! — 

Fie,  what  a savor ! tell  the  cooks  to 
close 

The  doors  of  all  the  offices  below. 

Latimer ! 

Sir,  we  are  private  with  our  women 
here  — 

Ever  a rough,  blunt,  and  uncourtly 
fellow  — 


Thou  light  a torch  that  never  will  go 
out ! 

’Tis  out  — mine  flames.  Women,  the 
Holy  Father 

Has  ta’en  the  legateship  from  our 
cousin  Pole  — 

Was  that  well  done  ? and  poor  Pole 
pines  of  it, 

As  I do,  to  the  death.  I am  but  a 
woman, 

I have  no  power.  — Ah,  weak  and 
meek  old  man, 

Seven-fold  dishonor’d  even  in  the 
sight 

Of  thine  own  sectaries  — No,  no.  No 
pardon ! — 

Why  that  was  false  : there  is  the  right 
hand  still 

Beckons  me  hence. 

Sir,  you  were  burnt  for  heresy,  not  for 
treason, 

Remember  that ! ’twas  I and  Bonner 
did  it, 

And  Pole ; we  are  three  to  one  — Have 
you  found  mercy  there, 

Grant  it  me  here  : and  see,  he  smiles 
and  goes, 

Gentle  as  in  life. 

Alice.  Madam,  who  goes'?  King 
Philip  ? 

Mary.  No,  Philip  comes  and  goes, 
but  never  goes. 

Women,  when  I am  dead, 

Open  my  heart,  and  there  you  will 
find  written 

Two  names,  Philip  and  Calais ; open 
his,  — 

So  that  he  have  one,  — 

You  will  find  Philip  only,  policy,  pol- 
icy*— 

Ay,  worse  than  that  — not  one  hour 
true  to  me ! 

Foul  maggots  crawling  in  a fester’d 
vice ! 

Adulterous  to  the  very  heart  of  Hell. 

Hast  thou  a knife  'l 

Alice.  Ay,  Madam,  but  o’  God’s 
mercy  — 

Mary.  Fool,  think’st  thou  I would 
peril  mine  own  soul 

By  slaughter  of  the  body  ? I could 
not,  girl. 


602 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Not  this  way  — callous  with  a constant 
stripe, 

Unwoundable.  The  knife ! 

Alice.  Take  heed,  take  heed  ! 

The  blade  is  keen  as  death. 

Mary.  This  Philip  shall  not 

Stare  in  upon  me  in  my  haggardness  ; 

Old,  miserable,  diseased, 

Incapable  of  children.  Come  thou 
down. 

[ Cuts  out  the  picture  and  throws  it  down. 

Lie  there.  ( Wails)  O God,  I have 
kill’d  my  Philip  ! 

Alice.  No, 

Madam,  you  have  but  cut  the  canvas 
out ; 

We  can  replace  it. 

Mary.  All  is  well  then;  rest  — 

I will  to  rest ; he  said,  I must  have 
rest.  [ Cries  of  “ Elizabeth  ” in 
the  street. 

A cry  ! What’s  that  ? Elizabeth  ? re- 
volt ? 

A new  Northumberland,  another 
Wyatt  ? 

I’ll  fight  it  on  the  threshold  of  the 
grave. 

Lady  Clarence.  Madam,  your  royal 
sister  comes  to  see  you. 

Mary.  I will  not  see  her. 

Who  knows  if  Boleyn’s  daughter  be 
my  sister  1 

I will  see  none  except  the  priest.  Your 
arm.  [To  Lady  Clarence. 

O Saint  of  Aragon,  with  that  sweet 
worn  smile 

Among  thy  patient  wrinkles  — Help 
me  hence.  [Exeunt. 

The  Priest  passes.  Enter  Elizabeth 
and  Sir  William  Cecil. 

Elizabeth.  Good  counsel  yours  — 

No  one  in  waiting  ? still, 

As  if  the  chamberlain  were  Death 
himself ! 

The  room  she  sleeps  in  — is  not  this 
the  way  1 

No,  that  way  there  are  voices.  Am  I 
too  late  ? 

Cecil  . . . God  guide  me  lest  I lose 
the  way.  [Exit  Elizabeth. 


Cecil.  Many  points  weather’d,  many 
perilous  ones, 

At  last  a harbor  opens ; but  therein 

Sunk  rocks  — they  need  fine  steering 

— much  it  is 

To  be  nor  mad,  nor  bigot  — have  a 
mind  — 

Nor  let  the  Priests  talk,  or  dream  of 
worlds  to  be, 

Miscolor  things  about  her  — sudden 
touches 

Eor  him,  or  him  — sunk  rocks;  no 
passionate  faith  — 

But  — if  let  be  — balance  and  com- 
promise ; 

Brave,  wary,  sane  to  the  heart  of  her 

— a Tudor 

School’d  by  the  shadow  of  death  — a 
Boleyn,  too, 

Glancing  across  the  Tudor  — not  so 
well. 

Enter  Alice. 

How  is  the  good  Queen  now  ? 

Alice.  Away  from  Philip. 

Back  in  her  childhood — prattling  to 
her  mother 

Of  her  betrothal  to  the  Emperor 
Charles, 

And  childlike-jealous  of  him  again  — 
and  once 

She  thank’d  her  father  sweetly  for  his 
book 

Against  that  godless  German.  Ah, 
those  days 

Were  happy.  It  was  never  merry 
world 

In  England,  since  the  Bible  came 
among  us. 

Cecil.  And  who  says  that  ? 

Alice.  It  is  a saying  among  the 
Catholics. 

Cecil.  It  never  will  be  merry  world 
in  England, 

Till  all  men  have  their  Bible,  rich  and 
poor. 

Alice.  The  Queen  is  dying,  or  you 
dare  not  say  it. 

Enter  Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth.  The  Queen  is  dead. 

Cecil.  Then  here  she  stands ! my 
homage. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


603 


Elizabeth.  She  knew  me,  and  ac- 
knowledged me  her  heir, 

Pray’d  me  to  pay  her  debts,  and  keep 
the  Faith ; 

Then  claspt  the  cross,  and  pass’d 
away  in  peace. 

I left  her  lying  still  and  beautiful, 

Morebeautiful  thanin  life.  Why  would 
you  vex  yourself, 

Poor  sister  ? Sir,  I swear  I have  no 
heart 

To  be  your  Queen.  To  reign  is  rest- 
less fence. 

Tierce,  quart,  and  trickery.  Peace  is 
with  the  dead. 

Her  life  was  winter,  for  her  spring 
was  nipt : 

And  she  loved  much  : pray  God  she 
be  forgiven. 

Cecil.  Peace  with  the  dead,  who 
never  were  at  peace ! 


Yet  she  loved  one  so  much  — I needs 
must  say  — 

That  never  English  monarch  dying  left 
England  so  little. 

Elizabeth.  But  with  Cecil’s  aid 

And  others,  if  our  person  be  secured 
From  traitor  stabs  — we  will  make 
England  great. 

Enter  Paget,  and  other  Lords  of  the 

Council,  Sir  Ralph  Bageniiall, 

etc. 

Lords.  God  save  Elizabeth,  the 
Queen  of  England ! 

Bagenhall.  God  save  the  Crown ! 
the  Papacy  is  no  more. 

Paget  (aside).  Are  we  so  sure  of 
that  ? 

Acclamation.  God  save  the  Queen! 


HAROLD : 

A DRAMA. 

To  His  Excellency 
THE  EIGHT  HON.  LOKD  LYTTON, 

Viceroy  and  Governor-  General  of  India. 

My  dear  Lord  Lytton,  — After  old-world  records  — such  as  the  Bayeux  tapestry  and 
the  Roman  de  Rou,  — Edward  Freeman’s  History  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  and  your 
father’s  Historical  Romance  treating  of  the  same  times,  have  been  mainly  helpful  to  me  in 
writing  this  Drama.  Your  father  dedicated  his  “ Harold  ” to  my  father’s  brother;  allow  me 
to  dedicate  my  “Harold”  to  yourself.  A.  TENNYSON. 


SHOW-DAY  AT  BATTLE  ABBEY,  1876. 

A garden  here  — May  breath  and  bloom  of  spring  — 
The  cuckoo  yonder  from  an  English  elm 
Crying  “ with  my  false  egg  I overwhelm 
The  native  nest : ” and  fancy  hears  the  ring 
Of  harness,  and  that  deathful  arrow  sing, 

And  Saxon  battleaxe  clang  on  Norman  helm. 

Here  rose  the  dragon-banner  of  our  realm : 

Here  fought,  here  fell,  our  Norman  slander’d  king. 

O Garden  blossoming  out  of  English  blood ! 

O strange  hate-healer  Time  ! We  stroll  and  stare 
Where  might  made  right  eight  hundred  years  ago ; 
Might,  right "?  ay  good,  so  all  things  make  for  good  — 
But  he  and  he,  if  soul  be  soul,  are  where 
Each  stands  full  face  with  all  he  did  below. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAE. 

King  Edward  the  Confessor. 

Stigand,  created  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  by  the  Antipope  Benedict. 

Aldred,  Archbishop  of  York.  The  Norman  Bishop  of  London. 

Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex,  afterwards  King  of  England  ) 

Tostig,  Earl  of  Northumbria  \ ^ ~ 

Gurth,  Earl  of  East  Anglia  °J 

Leofwin,  Earl  of  Kent  and  Essex 

W ULFNOTH  J 

Count  William  of  Normandy.  William  Rufus. 

William  Malet,  a Norman  Noble.1 

Edwin,  Earl  of  Mercia  ) Sons  of  Alfgar  of 

Morcar,  Earl  of  Northumbria  after  Tostig  ) Mercia. 

Gamel,  a Northumbrian  Thane.  Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu. 

Rolf,  a Ponthieu  Fisherman.  Hugh  Margot,  a Norman  Monk. 

Osgod  and  Athelric,  Canons  from  Waltham. 

The  Queen,  Edward  the  Confessor’s  Wife,  Daughter  of  Godwin. 

Aldwyth,  Daughter  of  Alfgar  and  Widow  of  Griffyth,  King  of  Wales. 
Edith,  Ward  of  King  Edward. 

Courtiers,  Earls  and  Thanes,  Men-at-Arms,  Canons  of  Waltham, 
Fishermen,  etc. 

1 . . . quidam  partim  Normannus  et  Anglus 
Compater  Heraldi.  ( Guy  of  Amiens,  587.) 


HAROLD. 


605 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  — London.  The  King’s 
Palace. 

(A  comet  seen  through  the  open  window.) 

Aldwyth,  Gamel,  Courtiers  talking 
together. 

First  Courtier.  Lo  ! there  once  more 
— this  is  the  seventh  night ! 
You  grimly-glaring,  treble-brandish’d 
scourge 
Of  England! 

Second  Courtier.  Horrible ! 

First  Courtier.  Look  you,  there’s 
a star 

That  dances  in  it  as  mad  with  agony ! 

Third  Courtier.  Ay,  like  a spirit  in 
Hell  who  skips  and  flies 
To  right  and  left,  and  cannot  scape 
the  flame. 

Second  Courtier.  Steam’d  upward 
from  the  undescendable 
Abysm. 

First  Courtier.  Or  floated  down- 
ward from  the  throne 
Of  God  Almighty. 

Aldwyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means  ? 

Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady ! 

Aldwyth.  Doth  this  affright  thee  ? 

Gamel.  Mightily,  my  dear  lady! 

Aldwyth.  Stand  by  me  then,  and 
look  upon  my  face. 

Not  on  the  comet. 

(Enter  Morcar.) 

Brother ! why  so  pale  ? 

Morcar.  It  glares  in  heaven,  it 
flares  upon  the  Thames, 

The  people  a\’e  as  thick  as  bees  below, 
They  hum  Tike  bees,  — they  cannot 
speak  — for  awe  ; 

Look  to  the  skies,  then  to  the  river, 
strike 

Their  hearts,  and  hold  their  babies  up 
to  it  . 

I think  that  they  would  Molochize 
thgm  too, 

To  have  jhe  heavens  clear. 


Aldwyth.  They  fright  not  me. 

(Enter  Leofwin,  after  him  Gurtii.) 

Ask  thou  Lord  Leofwin  what  he 
thinks  of  this ! 

Morcar.  Lord  Leofwin,  dost  thou 
believe,  that  these 

Three  rods  of  blood-red  fire  up  yon- 
der mean 

The  doom  of  England  and  the  wrath 
of  Heaven'? 

Bishop  of  London  (passing).  Did  ye 
not  cast  with  bestial  violence 

Our  holy  Norman  bishops  down  from 
all 

Their  thrones  in  England  ? I alone 
remain. 

Why  should  not  Heaven  be  wroth  ? 

Leofwin.  With  us,  or  thee  ? 

Bishop  of  London.  Did  ye  not  out- 
law your  archbishop  Robert, 

Robert  of  Jumie'ges — well-nigh  mur- 
der him  too  1 

Is  there  no  reason  for  the  wrath  of 
Heaven  ? 

Leofwin.  Why  then  the  wrath  of 
Heaven  hath  three  tails, 

The  devil  only  one. 

[Exit  Bishop  of  London. 

(Enter  Archbishop  Stigand.) 

Ask  our  Archbishop. 

Stigand  should  know  the  purposes  of 
Heaven. 

Stigand.  Not  I.  I cannot  read  the 
face  of  heaven ; 

Perhaps  our  vines  will  grow  the  better 
for  it. 

Leofwin  (laughing).  He  can  but  read 
the  king’s  face  on  his  coins. 

Stigand.  Ay,  ay,  young  lord,  there 
the  king’s  face  is  power. 

Gurth.  O father,  mock  not  at  a 
public  fear, 

But  tell  us,  is  this  pendent  hell  in 
heaven 

A harm  to  England  ? 

Stigand.  Ask  it  of  King  Edward  ! 

And  he  may  tell  thee,  I am  a harm  to 
England. 

Old  uncanonical  Stigand  — ask  of  me 


606 


HAROLD. 


Who  had  my  pallium  from  an  Anti- 
pope ! 

Not  he  the  man  — for  in  our  windy 
world 

What’s  up  is  faith,  what’s  down  is 
heresy. 

Our  friends,  the  Normans,  holp  to 
shake  his  chair. 

I have  a Norman  fever  on  me,  son, 

And  cannot  answer  sanely  . . . What 
it  means  ? 

Ask  our  broad  Earl. 

[ Pointing  to  Harold,  who  enters. 

Harold  ( seeing  Gamel).  Hail,  Ga- 
mel,  son  of  Orm  ! 

Albeit  no  rolling  stone,  my  good  friend 
Gamel, 

Thou  hast  rounded  since  we  met. 
Thy  life  at  home 

Is  easier  than  mine  here.  Look ! am 
I not 

Work-wan,  flesh-fallen? 

Gamel.  Art  thou  sick,  good 
Earl  ? 

Harold.  Sick  as  an  autumn  swal- 
low for  a voyage, 

Sick  for  an  idle  week  of  hawk  and 
hound 

Beyond  the  seas  — a change ! When 
earnest  thou  hither  7 

Gamel.  To-day,  good  Earl. 

Harold.  Is  the  North  quiet,  Gamel  7 

Gamel.  Nay,  there  be  murmurs,  for 
thy  brother  breaks  us 

With  over-taxing  — quiet,  ay,  as  yet  — 

Nothing  as  yet. 

Harold.  Stand  by  him,  mine  old 
friend, 

Thou  art  a great  voice  in  Northum- 
berland ! 

Advise  him : speak  him  sweetly,  he 
will  hear  thee. 

He  is  passionate  but  honest.  Stand 
thou  by  him  ! 

More  talk  of  this  to-morrow,  if  yon 
weird  sign 

Not  blast  us  in  our  dreams.  — Well, 
father  Stigand  — 

[To  Stigand,  who  advances  to  him. 

Stigand.  { pointing  to  the  comet).  War 
there,  my  son  7 is  that  the  doom 
of  England? 


Harold.  Why  not  the  doom  of  all 
the  world  as  well  ? 

For  all  the  world  sees  it  as  well  as 
England. 

These  meteors  came  and  w^ent  before 
our  day, 

Not  harming  any  : it  threatens  us  no 
more 

Than  French  or  Norman.  War?  the 
worst  that  follows 

Things  that  seem’d  jerk’d  out  of  the 
common  rut 

Of  Nature  is  the  hot  religious  fool, 

Who,  seeing  war  in  heaven,  for 
heaven’s  credit 

Makes  it  on  earth : but  look,  where 
Edward  draws 

A faint  foot  hither,  leaning  upon  Tos- 
tig. 

He  hath  learnt  to  love  our  Tostig 
much  of  late. 

Leofwin.  And  he  hath  learnt,  de- 
spite the  tiger  in  him, 

To  sleek  and  supple  himself  to  the 
king’s  hand. 

Gurth.  I trust  the  kingly  touch 
that  cures  the  evil 

May  serve  to  charm  the  tiger  out  of 
him. 

Leofwin.  He  hath  as  much  of  cat 
as  tiger  in  him. 

Our  Tostig  loves  the  hand  and  not 
the  man. 

Harold.  Nay ! Better  die  than  lie ! 

Enter  King,  Queen,  and  Tostig. 

Edward.  In  heaven  signs ! 

Signs  upon  earth  ! signs  everywhere ! 
your  Priests 

Gross,  worldly,  simoniacal,  unlearn’d ! 

They  scarce  can  read  their  Psalter; 
and  your  churches 

Uncouth,  unhandsome,  while  in  Nor- 
manland 

God  speaks  thro’  abler  voices,  as  He 
dwells 

In  statelier  shrines.  I say  not  this, 
as  being 

Half  Norman-blooded,  nor  as  some 
have  held, 

Because  I love  the  Norman  better  — 
no, 


HAROLD. 


607 


But  dreading  God’s  revenge  upon  this 
realm 

For  narrowness  and  coldness  : and  I 
say  it 

For  the  last  time  perchance,  before  I 
go 

To  find  the  sweet  refreshment  of  the 
Saints. 

I have  lived  a life  of  utter  purity : 

I have  builded  the  great  church  of 
Holy  Peter : 

I have  wrought  miracles  — to  God 
the  glory  — 

And  miracles  will  in  my  name  be 
wrought 

Hereafter.  — I have  fought  the  fight 
and  go  — 

I see  the  flashing  of  the  gates  of 
pearl  — 

And  it  is  well  with  me,  tho’  some  of 
you 

Have  scorn’d  me  — ay  — but  after  I 
am  gone 

Woe,  woe  to  England ! I have  had  a 
vision ; 

The  seven  sleepers  in  the  cave  at 
Ephesus 

Have  turn’d  from  right  to  left. 

Harold.  My  most  dear  Master, 

What  matters  ? let  them  turn  from 
left  to  right 

And  sleep  again. 

Tostig.  Too  hardy  with  thy  king! 

A life  of  prayer  and  fasting  well  may 
see 

Deeper  into  the  mysteries  of  heaven 

Than  thou,  good  brother. 

Aldwgth  [aside).  Sees  he  into  thine, 

That  thou  wouldst  have  his  promise 
for  the  crown  ? 

Edward.  Tostig  says  true  ; my  son, 
thou  art  too  hard, 

Xot  stagger’d  by  this  ominous  earth 
and  heaven  : 

But  heaven  and  earth  are  threads  of 
the  same  loom, 

Play  into  one  another,  and  weave  the 
web 

That  may  confound  thee  yet. 

Harold.  Nay,  I trust  not, 

For  I have  served  thee  long  and 
honestly. 


Edward.  I know  it,  son ; I am  not 
thankless : thou 

Hast  broken  all  my  foes,  lighten’d  for 
me 

The  weight  of  this  poor  crown,  and 
left  me  time 

And  peace  for  prayer  to  gain  a better 
one. 

Twelve  years  of  service ! England 
loves  thee  for  it. 

Thou  art  the  man  to  rule  her! 

Aldwgth  (aside).  So,  not  Tostig ! 

Harold.  And  after  those  twelve 
years  a boon,  my  king, 

Respite,  a holiday:  thyself  wast 

wont 

To  love  the  chase:  thy  leave  to  set 
my  feet 

On  board,  and  hunt  and  hawk  beyond 
the  seas ! 

Edward.  What  with  this  flaming 
horror  overhead  ? 

Harold.  Well,  when  it  passes  then. 

Edward.  Ay,  if  it  pass. 

Go  not  to  Normandy  — go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy. 

Harold.  And  wherefore  not,  my 
king,  to  Normandy  ? 

Is  not  my  brother  Wulfnoth  hostage 
there 

For  my  dead  father’s  loyalty  to  thee  ? 

I pray  thee,  let  me  hence  and  bring 
him  home. 

Edward.  Not  thee,  my  son:  some 
other  messenger. 

Harold.  And  why  not  me,  my  lord, 
to  Normandy  ? 

Is  not  the  Norman  Count  thy  friend 
and  mine  ? 

Edward.  I pray  thee,  do  not  go  to 
Normandy. 

Harold.  Because  my  father  drove 
the  Normans  out 

Of  England? — That  was  many  a 
summer  gone  — 

Forgotten  and  forgiven  by  them  and 
thee. 

Edward.  Harold,  I will  not  yield 
thee  leave  to  go. 

Harold.  Why  then  to  Flanders.  I 
w ill  hawk  and  hunt 

In  Flanders. 


60S 


HAROLD. 


Edward.  Be  there  not  fair  woods 
and  fields 

In  England  ? Wilful,  wilful.  Go  — 
the  Saints 

Pilot  and  prosper  all  thy  wandering 
out 

And  homeward.  Tostig,  I am  faint 
again. 

Son  Harold,  I will  in  and  pray  for 
thee. 

[ Exit , leaning  on  Tostig,  and  fol- 
lowed by  Stigand,  Morcar,  and 
Courtiers. 

Harold.  What  lies  upon  the  mind  of 
our  good  king 

That  he  should  harp  this  way  on 
Normandy  ? 

Queen.  Brother,  the  king  is  wiser 
than  he  seems ; 

And  Tostig  knows  it ; Tostig  loves 
the  king. 

Harold.  And  love  should  know ; and 
— be  the  king  so  wise, — 

Then  Tostig  too  were  wiser  than  he 
seems. 

I love  the  man  but  not  his  phantasies. 

( Re-enter  Tostig.) 

Well,  brother, 

When  didst  thou  hear  from  thy 
Northumbria  ? 

Tostig.  When  did  I hear  aught  but 
this  “ When  ” from  thee  ? 

Leave  me  alone,  brother,  with  my 
Northumbria  : 

She  is  my  mistress, let  me  look  to  her! 

The  King  hath  made  me  Earl ; make 
me  not  fool ! 

Nor  make  the  King  a fool,  who  made 
me  Earl ! 

Harold.  No,  Tostig  — lest  I make 
myself  a fool 

Who  made  the  King  who  made  thee, 
make  thee  Earl. 

Tostig.  Why  chafe  me  then  ? Thou 
knowest  I soon  go  wild. 

Gurth.  Come,  come  ! as  yet  thou  art 
not  gone  so  wild 

But  thou  canst  hear  the  best  and 
wisest  of  us. 

Harold.  So  says  old  Gurth,  not  I : 
yet  hear ! thine  earldom, 


Tostig,  hath  been  a kingdom.  Their 
old  crown 

Is  yet  a force  among  them,  a sun 
set 

But  leaving  light  enough  for  Alfgar’s 
house 

To  strike  thee  dowm  by — nay,  this 
ghastly  glare 

May  heat  their  fancies. 

Tostig.  My  most  worthy  brother, 

Thou  art  the  quietest  man  in  all  the 
world  — 

Ay,  ay  and  wise  in  peace  and  great  in 
war  — 

Pray  God  the  people  choose  thee  for 
their  king ! 

But  all  the  powers  of  the  house  of 
Godwin 

Are  not  enframed  in  thee. 

Harold.  Thank  the  Saints,  no ! 

But  thou  hast  drain’d  them  shallow 
by  thy  tolls, 

And  thou  art  ever  here  about  the 
King : 

Thine  absence  well  may  seem  a want 
of  care. 

Cling  to  their  love ; for,  now  the  sons 
of  Godwin 

Sit  topmost  in  the  field  of  England, 
envy, 

Like  the  rough  bear  beneath  the  tree, 
good  brother, 

Waits  till  the  man  let  go. 

Tostig.  Good  counsel  truly  ! 

I heard  from  my  Northumbria  yester- 
day. 

Harold.  How  goes  it  then  with  thy 
Northumbria  ? Well  1 

Tostig.  And  wouldst  thou  that  it 
went  aught  else  than  well  ? 

Harold.  I would  it  went  as  well  as 
with  mine  earldom, 

Leofwin’s  and  Gurth’s. 

Tostig.  Ye  govern  milder  men. 

Gurth.  We  have  made  them  milder 
by  just  government. 

Tostig.  Ay,  ever  give  yourselves 
your  own  good  word. 

Leofwin.  An  honest  gift,  by  all  the 
Saints,  if  giver 

And  taker  be  but  honest ! but  they 
bribe 


HAROLD. 


609 


Each  other,  and  so  often,  an  honest 
world 

Will  not  believe  them. 

Harold.  I may  tell  thee,  Tostig, 
I heard  from  thy  Northumberland 
to-day. 

Tostig.  From  spies  of  thine  to  spy 
my  nakedness 
In  my  poor  North  ! 

Harold.  There  is  a movement  there, 
A blind  one  — nothing  yet. 

Tostig.  Crush  it  at  once 

With  all  the  power  I have ! — I must 
— I will ! — 

Crush  it  half-born!  Fool  still?  or 
wisdom  there, 

My  wise  head-shaking  Harold  ? 

Harold.  Make  not  thou 

The  nothing  something.  Wisdom 
when  in  power 

And  wisest,  should  not  frown  as 
Power,  but  smile 

As  kindness,  watching  all,  till  the  true 
must 

Shall  make  her  strike  as  Power : but 
when  to  strike  — 

0 Tostig,  O dear  brother  — If  they 
prance, 

Rein  in,  not  lash  them,  lest  they  rear 
and  run, 

And  break  both  neck  and  axle. 

Tostig.  Good  again ! 

Good  counsel  tho’  scarce  needed.  Pour 
not  water 

In  the  full  vessel  running  out  at 
top 

To  swamp  the  house. 

Leofwin.  Nor  thou  be  a wild  thing 
Out  of  the  waste,  to  turn  and  bite  the 
hand 

Would  help  thee  from  the  trap. 

Tostig.  Thou  playest  in  tune. 

Leofwin.  To  the  deaf  adder  thee, 
that  wilt  not  dance 
However  wisely  charm’d. 

Tostig.  No  more,  no  more  ! 

Gurth.  I likewise  cry  “no  more.” 
Unwholesome  talk 

For  Godwin’s  house  ! Leofwin,  thou 
hast  a tongue  ! 

Tostig,  thou  look’st  as  thou  wouldst 
spring  upon  him. 


St.  Olaf,  not  while  I am  by  ! Come, 
come, 

Join  hands,  let  brethren  dwell  in  unity; 

Let  kith  and  kin  stand  close  as  our 
shield-wall, 

Who  breaks  us  then  ? I say,  thou  hast 
a tongue, 

And  Tostig  is  not  stout  enough  to  bear 
it. 

Vex  him  not,  Leofwin. 

Tostig.  No,  I am  not  vext,  — 

Altho’  ye  seek  to  vex  me,  one  and  all. 

I have  to  make  report  of  my  good 
earldom 

To  the  good  king  who  gave  it  — not 
to  you  — 

Not  any  of  you.  — I am  not  vext  at  all. 

Harold.  The  king  ? the  king  is  ever 
at  his  prayers  ; 

In  all  that  handles  matter  of  the 
state 

I am  the  king. 

Tostig.  That  shalt  thou  never  be 

If  I can  thwart  thee. 

Harold.  Brother,  brother ! 

Tostig.  Away! 

[Exit  Tostig. 

Queen.  Spite  of  this  grisly  star  ye 
three  must  gall 

Poor  Tostig. 

Leofwin.  Tostig,  sister,  galls  him- 
self ; 

He  cannot  smell  a rose  but  pricks  his 
nose 

Against  the  thorn,  and  rails  against 
the  rose. 

Queen.  I am  the  only  rose  of  all  the 
stock 

That  never  thorn’d  him ; Edward 
loves  him,  so 

Ye  hate  him.  Harold  always  hated 
him. 

Why  — how  they  fought  when  boys 
— and,  Holy  Mary ! 

How  Harold  used  to  beat  him  ! 

Harold.  Why,  boys  will  fight. 

Leofwin  would  often  fight  me,  and  I 
beat  him. 

Even  old  Gurth  would  fight.  I had 
much  ado 

To  hold  mine  own  against  old  Gurth. 
Old  Gurth, 


610 


HAROLD . 


We  fought  like  great  states  for  grave 
cause ; but  Tostig  — 

On  a sudden  — at  a something  — for  a 
nothing  — 

The  boy  would  list  me  hard,  and  when 
we  fought 

I conquer’d,  and  he  loved  me  none  the 
less, 

Till  thou  wouldst  get  him  all  apart, 
and  tell  him 

That  where  he  was  but  worsted,  he 
was  wrong’d. 

Ah ! thou  hast  taught  the  king  to 
spoil  him  too  ; 

Now  the  spoilt  child  sways  both.  Take 
heed,  take  heed ; 

Thou  art  the  Queen ; ye  are  boy  and 
girl  no  more : 

Side  not  with  Tostig  in  any  violence, 

Lest  thou  be  sideways  guilty  of  the 
violence. 

Queen.  Come  fall  not  foul  on  me. 
I leave  thee,  brother. 

Harold.  Nay,  my  good  sister  — 
[Exeunt  Queen,  Harold,  Gurth,  and 
Leofwin. 

Aldwyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means  ? 

[Pointing  to  the  comet. 

Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lauy, 

War,  waste,  plague,  famine,  all  malig- 
nities. 

Aldwyth.  It  means  the  fall  of  Tos- 
tig from  his  earldom. 

Gamel.  That  were  too  small  a mat- 
ter for  a comet ! 

Aldwyth.  It  means  the  lifting  of  the 
house  of  Alfgar. 

Gamel.  Too  small ! a comet  would 
not  show  for  that ! 

Aldwyth.  Not  small  for  thee,  if  thou 
canst  compass  it. 

Gamel.  Thy  love  'i 

Aldwyth.  As  much  as  I can 

give  thee,  man ; 

This  Tostig  is,  or  like  to  be,  a tyrant ; 

Stir  up  thy  people  : oust  him  ! 

Gamel.  And  thy  love  ? 

Aldwyth.  Asmuchasthoucanstbear. 

Gamel.  I can  bear  all, 

And  not  be  giddy. 

Aldwyth,  No  more  now  : to-morrow. 


SCENE  II.  — In  the  Garden.  The 

King’s  House  near  London.  Sun- 
set. 

Edith.  Mad  for  thy  mate,  passion- 
ate nightingale  . . . 

I love  thee  for  it  — ay,  but  stay  a mo- 
ment ; 

He  can  but  stay  a moment : he  is  go- 
ing. 

I fain  would  hear  him  coming ! . . . 
near  me  . . near, 

Somewhere  — To  draw  him  nearer 
with  a charm 

Like  thine  to  thine. 

{Singing.) 

Love  is  come  with  a song  and  a smile, 

Welcome  Love  with  a smile  and  a 
song: 

Love  can  stay  but  a little  while. 

Why  cannot  he  stay  'l  They  call  him 
away : 

Ye  do  him  wrong,  ye  do  him  wrong 

Love  will  stay  for  a 'whole  life  long. 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold.  The  nightingales  at  Hav- 
ering-in-the-bower 

Sang  out  their  loves  so  loud,  that  Ed- 
ward’s prayers 

Were  deafen’d  and  he  pray’d  them 
dumb,  and  thus 

I dumb  thee  too,  my  wingless  night- 
ingale! [Kissing  her. 

Edith.  Thou  art  my  music  ! Would 
their  wings  were  mine 

To  follow  thee  to  Flanders  ! Must 
thou  go  1 

Harold.  Not  must,  but  will.  It  is 
but  for  one  moon. 

Edith.  Leaving  so  many  foes  in 
Edward’s  hall 

To  league  against  thy  weal.  The  Lady 
Aldwyth 

Was  here  to-day,  and  when  she  touch’d 
on  thee, 

She  stammer’d  in  her  hate  ; I am  sur< 
she  hates  thee, 

Pants  for  thy  blood. 

Harold.  Well,  I have  given  her 
cause  — 

I fear  no  woman. 


HAROLD. 


611 


Edith.  Hate  not  one  who  felt 

Some  pity  for  thy  hater  ! I am  sure 
Her  morning  wanted  sunlight,  she  so 
praised 

The  convent  and  lone  life  — within 
the  pale  — 

Beyond  the  passion.  Nay  — she  held 
with  Edward, 

At  least  methought  she  held  with  holy 
Edward, 

That  marriage  was  half  sin. 

Harold.  A lesson  worth 

Finger  and  thumb  — thus  ( snaps  his 
Jingers).  And  my  answer  to  it  — 
See  here  — an  interwoven  H and  E ! 
Take  thou  this  ring ; I will  demand 
his  ward 

From  Edward  when  I come  again. 
Ay,  would  she  % 

She  to  shut  up  my  blossom  in  the  dark  ! 
Thou  art  my  nun,  thy  cloister  in  mine 
arms. 

Edith  (taking  the  ring).  Yea,  but 
Earl  Tostig  — 

Harold.  That’s  a truer  fear ! 

For  if  the  North  take  fire,  I should  be 
back ; 

I shall  be,  soon  enough. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  last  night 

An  evil  dream  that  ever  came  and 
went  — 

Harold.  A gnat  that  vext  thy  pil- 
low ! Had  I been  by, 

I would  have  spoil’d  his  horn.  My 
girl,  what  was  it  % 

Edith.  Oh!  that  thou  wert  not  go- 
ing! 

For  so  methought  it  was  our  marriage- 
morn, 

And  while  we  stood  together,  a dead 
man 

Rose  from  behind  the  altar,  tore  away 
My  marriage  ring,  and  rent  my  bridal 
veil ; 

And  then  I turn’d,  and  saw  the  church 
all  fill’d 

With  dead  men  upright  from  their 
graves,  and  all 

The  dead  men  made  at  thee  to  murder 
thee, 

But  thou  didst  back  thyself  against  a 
pillar, 


And  strike  among  them  with  thy  bat- 
tle-axe — 

There,  what  a dream  ! 

Harold.  W ell,  well  — a dream  — 

no  more ! 

Edith.  Did  not  Heaven  speak  to 
men  in  dreams  of  old  ? 

Harold.  Ay  — well  — of  old.  I 
tell  thee  what,  my  child ; 

Thou  hast  misread  this  merry  dream 
of  thine, 

Taken  the  rifted  pillars  of  the  wood 
For  smooth  stone  columns  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, 

The  shadows  of  a hundred  fat  dead  deer 
For  dead  men’s  ghosts.  True,  that  the 
battle-axe 

Was  out  of  place ; it  should  have  been 
the  bow.  — 

Come,  thou  shalt  dream  no  more  such 
dreams  ; I swear  it, 

By  mine  own  eyes  — and  these  two 
sapphires  — these 

Twin  rubies,  that  are  amulets  against  all 
The  kisses  of  all  kind  of  womankind 
In  Flanders,  till  the  sea  shall  roll  me 
back 

To  tumble  at  thy  feet. 

Edith.  That  would  but  shame  me, 
Rather  than  make  me  vain.  The  sea 
may  roll 

Sand,  shingle,  shore-weed,  not  the  liv- 
ing rock 

Which  guards  the  land. 

Harold.  Except  it  be  a soft  one 
And  undereaten  to  the  fall.  Mine 
amulet  . . . 

This  last  . . . upon  thine  eyelids,  to 
shut  in 

A happier  dream.  Sleep,  sleep,  and 
thou  shalt  see 

My  greyhounds  fleeting  like  a beam 
of  light, 

And  hear  my  peregrine  and  her  bells 
in  heaven  ; 

And  other  bells  on  earth,  which  yet 
are  heaven’s ; 

Guess  what  they  be. 

Edith.  He  cannot  guess  who  knows. 
Farewell,  my  king. 

Harold.  Not  yet,  but  then  — my 
queen.  \_Exeunt. 


612 


HAROLD. 


Enter  Aldwyth  from  the  thicket. 

Aldwyth.  The  kiss  that  charms 
thine  eyelids  into  sleep, 

Will  hold  mine  waking.  Hate  him  ? 
I could  love  him 

More,  tenfold,  than  this  fearful  child 
can  do ; 

Griffyth  I hated:  why  not  hate  the  foe 

Of  England  ? Griffyth  when  I saw 
him  flee, 

Chased  deer-like  up  his  mountains,  all 
the  blood 

That  should  have  only  pulsed  for  Grif- 
fyth, beat 

For  his  pursuer.  I love  him  or  think 
I love  him. 

If  he  were  King  of  England,  I his  queen, 

I might  be  sure  of  it.  Nay,  I do  love 
him.  — 

She  must  be  cloister’d  somehow,  lest 
the  king 

Should  yield  his  ward  to  Harold’s  will. 
What  harm  ? 

She  hath  but  blood  enough  to  live,  not 
love.  — 

When  Harold  goes  and  Tostig,  shall 
I play 

The  craftier  Tostig  with  him?  fawn 
upon  him  ? 

Chime  in  with  all  ? “ 0 thou  more 

saint  than  king  ! ” 

And  that  were  true  enough.  “ 0 
blessed  relics ! ” 

* O Holy  Peter!”  If  he  found  me  thus, 

Harold  might  hate  me  ; he  is  broad 
and  honest, 

Breathing  an  easy  gladness  . . . not 
like  Aldwyth  . . . 

For  which  I strangely  love  him. 
Should  not  England 

Love  Aldwyth,  if  she  stays  the  feuds 
that  part 

The  sons  of  Godwin  from  the  sons  of 
Alfgar 

By  such  a marrying  ? Courage,  noble 
Aldwyth  ! 

Let  all  thy  people  bless  thee  ! 

Our  wild  Tostig, 

Edward  hath  made  him  Earl : he 
wrould  be  king  : — 


The  dog  that  snapt  the  shadow,  dropt 
the  bone.  — 

I trust  he  may  do  well,  this  Gamel, 
whom 

I play  upon,  that  he  may  play  the  note 

Whereat  the  dog  shall  howl  and  run, 
and  Harold 

Hear  the  king’s  music,  all  alone  with 
him, 

Pronounced  his  heir  of  England. 

I see  the  goal  and  half  the  way  to  it.  — 

Peace-lover  is  our  Harold  for  the 
sake 

Of  England’s  wholeness  — so  — to 
shake  the  North 

With  earthquake  and  disruption  — 
some  division  — 

Then  fling  mine  own  fair  person  in  the 
gap 

A sacrifice  to  Harold,  a peace-offering, 

A scape-goat  marriage  — all  the  sins 
of  both 

The  houses  on  mine  head  — then  a 
fair  life 

And  bless  the  Queen  of  England. 

Morcar  ( coming  from  the  thicket).  Art 
thou  assured 

By  this,  that  Harold  loves  but  Edith  ? 

Aldwyth.  Morcar ! 

Why  creep’st  thou  like  a timorous 
beast  of  prey 

Out  of  the  bush  by  night  ? 

Morcar.  I follow’d  thee. 

Aldwyth.  Follow  my  lead,  and  I 
will  make  thee  earl. 

Morcar.  What  lead  then  ? 

Aldwyth.  Thou  shalt  flash  it  secretly 

Among  the  good  Northumbrian  folk, 
that  I — 

That  Harold  loves  me  — yea,  and  pres- 
ently 

That  I and  Harold  are  betroth’d — and 
last  — 

Perchance  that  Harold  wrongs  me ; 
tho’  I would  not 

That  it  should  come  to  that. 

Morcar.  I will  both  flash 

And  thunder  for  thee. 

Aldwyth.  I said  “ secretly  ” ; 

It  is  the  flash  that  murders,  the  poor 
thunder  , 

Never  harm’d  head. 


HAROLD. 


613 


Morcar.  But  thunder  may  bring 
down 

That  which  the  flash  hath  stricken. 

Aldwyth.  Down  with  Tostig ! 

That  first  of  all.  — And  when  doth 
Harold  go  ? 

Morcar.  To-morrow  — first  to  Bos- 
liarn,  then  to  Flanders. 

Aldwyth.  Not  to  come  back  till 
Tostig  shall  have  shown 

And  redden’d  with  his  people’s  blood 
the  teeth 

That  shall  be  broken  by  us  — yea,  and 
thou 

Chair’d  in  his  place.  Good-night,  and 
dream  thyself 

Their  chosen  Earl.  [ Exit  Aldwyth. 

Morcar.  Earl  first,  and  after  that 

Who  knows  I may  not  dream  myself 
their  king ! 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  — Seashore.  Ponthieu. 

Night. 

Harold  and  his  Men,  wrecked. 

Harold.  Friends,  in  that  last  inhos- 
pitable plunge 

Our  boat  hath  burst  her  ribs  ; but  ours 
are  whole ; 

I have  but  bark’d  my  hands. 

Attendant.  I dug  mine  into 

My  old  fast  friend  the  shore,  and  cling- 
ing thus 

Felt  the  remorseless  outdraught  of  the 
deep 

Haul  like  a great  strong  fellow  at  my 
legs, 

And  then  I rose  and  ran.  The  blast 
that  came 

So  suddenly  hath  fallen  as  suddenly  — 

Put  thou  the  comet  and  this  blast  to- 
gether— 

Harold.  Put  thou  thyself  and 
mother-wit  together. 

Be  not  a fool ! 

( Enter  Fishermen  with  torches, ‘Harold 
going  up  to  one  of  them,  Rolf.) 


Wicked  sea-will-o’-the-wisp  ! 
Wolf  of  the  shore!  dog,  with  thy  ly- 
ing lights 

Thou  hast  betray’d  us  on  these  rocks 
of  thine ! 

Rolf.  Ay,  but  thou  liest  as  loud  as 
the  black  herring-pond  behind  thee. 
We  be  fishermen ; I came  to  see  after 
my  nets. 

Harold.  To  drag  us  into  them. 
Fishermen  ? devils  ! 

Who,  while  ye  fish  for  men  with  your 
false  fires, 

Let  the  great  Devil  fish  for  your  own 
souls. 

Rolf.  Nay  then,  we  be  liker  the 
blessed  Apostles ; they  were  fishers  of 
men,  Father  Jean  says. 

Harold.  I had  liefer  that  the  fish 
had  swallowed  me, 

Like  Jonah,  than  have  known  there 
were  such  devils. 

What’s  to  be  done  ? 

[To his  Men — goes  apart  with  them. 
Fisherman.  Rolf,  what  fish  did 
swallow  Jonah  ? 

Rolf.  A whale ! 

Fisherman.  Then  a whale  to  a whelk 
we  have  swallowed  the  King  of  Eng- 
land. I saw  him  over  there.  Look 
thee,  Rolf,  when  I was  down  in  the 
fever,  she  was  down  with  the  hunger, 
and  thou  didst  stand  by  her  and  give 
her  thy  crabs,  and  set  her  up  again, 
till  now,  by  the  patient  Saints,  she’s 
as  crabb’d  as  ever. 

Rolf.  And  I’ll  give  her  my  crabs 
again,  when  thou  art  down  again. 

Fisherman.  I thank  thee,  Rolf.  Run 
thou  to  Count  Guy ; he  is  hard  at  hand. 
Tell  him  what  hath  crept  into  our 
creel,  and  he  will  fee  thee  as  freely  as 
he  will  wrrench  this  outlander’s  ransom 
out  of  him  — and  why  not  ? for  what 
right  had  he  to  get  himself  wrecked 
on  another  man’s  land  ? 

Rolf.  Thou  art  the  human-hearted- 
est,  Christian-charitiest  of  all  crab- 
catchers.  Share  and  share  alike  ! 

[Exit. 

Harold  (to  Fisherman).  Fellow, 
dost  thou  catch  crabs  'l 


614 


HAROLD. 


Fisherman.  As  few  as  I may  in  a 
wind,  and  less  than  I would  in  a calm. 
Ay! 

Harold.  I have  a mind  that  thou 
shalt  catch  no  more. 

Fisherman.  How  1 

Harold.  I have  a mind  to  brain  thee 
with  mine  axe. 

Fisherman.  Ay,  do,  do,  and  our  great 
Count-crab  will  make  his  nippers  meet 
in  thine  heart ; he’ll  sweat  it  out  of 
thee,  he’ll  sweat  it  out  of  thee.  Look, 
lie’s  here  ! He’ll  speak  for  himself  ! 
Hold  thine  own,  if  thou  canst ! 

Enter  Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu. 

Harold.  Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu  ? 

Guy.  Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex ! 

Harold.  Thy  villains  with  their 
lying  lights  have  wreck’d  us  ! 

Guy.  Art  thou  not  Earl  of  W essex  1 

Harold.  In  mine  earldom 

A man  may  hang  gold  bracelets  on  a 
bush, 

And  leave  them  for  a year,  and  com- 
ing back 
Find  them  again. 

Guy.  Thou  art  a mighty  man 

In  thine  own  earldom  ! 

Harold.  Were  such  murderous  liars 
In  Wessex  — if  I caught  them,  they 
should  hang 

Cliff-gibbeted  for  sea-marks  ; our  sea- 
mew 

Winging  their  only  wail ! 

Guy.  Ay,  but  my  men 

Hold  that  the  shipwreckt  are  accursed 
of  God ; — 

What  hinders  me  to  hold  with  mine 
own  men  ? 

Harold.  The  Christian  manhood  of 
the  man  who  reigns  ! 

Guy.  Ay,  rave  thy  worst,  but  in  our 
oubliettes 

Thou  shalt  or  rot  or  ransom.  Hale 
him  hence ! 

[To  one  of  his  Attendants. 
Fly  thou  to  William;  tell  him  we  have 
Harold. 


SCENE  II.  — Bayeux.  Palace. 

Count  William  and  William 
Malet. 

William.  We  hold  our  Saxon  wood- 
cock in  the  springe, 

But  he  begins  to  flutter.  As  I think 

He  was  thine  host  in  England  when  I 
went 

To  visit  Edward. 

Malet.  Yea,  and  there,  my  lord, 

To  make  allowance  for  their  rougher 
fashions, 

I found  him  all  a noble  host  should  be. 

William.  Thou  art  his  friend  : thou 
know’st  my  claim  on  England 

Thro’  Edward’s  promise : we  have  him 
in  the  toils. 

And  it  were  well,  if  thou  shouldst  let 
him  feel, 

How  dense  a fold  of  danger  nets  him 
round, 

So  that  he  bristle  himself  against  my 
will. 

Malet.  What  would  I do,  my  lord, 
if  I were  you  ? 

William.  What  wouldst  thou  do  ? 

Malet.  My  lord,  he  is  thy  guest. 

William.  Nay,  by  the  splendor 
of  God,  no  guest  of  mine. 

He  came  not  to  see  me,  had  past  me 

by 

To  hunt  and  hawk  elsewhere,  save  for 
the  fate 

Which  hunted  him  when  that  un- 
Saxon  blast, 

And  bolts  of  thunder  moulded  in  high 
heaven 

To  serve  the  Norman  purpose,  drave 
and  crack’d 

His  boat  on  Ponthieu  beach;  where 
our  friend  Guy 

Had  wrung  his  ransom  from  him  by 
the  rack, 

But  that  I stept  between  and  pur- 
chased him, 

Translating  his  captivity  from  Guy 

To  mine  own  hearth  at  Bayeux,  where 
he  sits 

My  ransom’d  prisoner. 

Malet.  Well,  if  not  with  gold, 


HAROLD. 


615 


With  golden  deeds  and  iron  strokes 
that  brought 

Thy  war  with  Brittany  to  a goodlier 
close 

Than  else  had  been,  he  paid  his  ran- 
som back. 

William.  So  that  henceforth  they 
are  not  like  to  league 

With  Harold  against  me. 

Malet.  A marvel,  how 

He  from  the  liquid  sands  of  Coesnon 

Haled  thy  shore-swallow’d,  armor’d 
Normans  up 

To  fight  for  thee  again ! 

William.  Perchance  against 

Their  saver,  save  thou  save  him  from 
himself. 

Malet.  But  I should  let  him  home 
again,  my  lord. 

William.  Simple  ! let  fly  the  bird 
within  the  hand, 

To  catch  the  bird  again  within  the 
bush! 

No. 

Smooth  thou  my  way,  before  he  clash 
with  me ; 

I want  his  voice  in  England  for  the 
crown, 

I want  thy  voice  with  him  to  bring  him 
round ; 

And  being  brave  he  must  be  subtly 
cow’d, 

And  being  truthful  wrought  upon  to 
swear 

Vows  that  he  dare  not  break.  Eng- 
land our  own 

Thro’  Harold’s  help,  he  shall  be  my 
dear  friend 

As  well  as  thine,  and  thou  thyself 
shalt  have 

Large  lordship  there  of  lands  and  ter- 
ritory. 

Malet.  1 knew  thy  purpose ; he  and 
Wulfnoth  never 

Have  met,  except  in  public ; shall 
they  meet 

In  private  ? I have  often  talk’d  with 
Wulfnoth, 

And  stuff’d  the  boy  with  fears  that 
these  may  act 

On  Harold  when  they  meet. 

William.  Then  let  them  meet ! 


Malet.  I can  but  love  this  noble, 
honest  Harold. 

William.  Love  him!  why  not? 
thine  is  a loving  office, 

I have  commission’d  thee  to  save  the 
man : 

Help  the  good  ship,  showing  the 
sunken  rock, 

Or  he  is  wreckt  for  ever. 

Enter  William  Rufus. 

William  Rufus.  Father. 

William.  Well,  boy. 

William  Rufus.  They  have  taken 
away  the  toy  thou  gavest  me, 

The  Norman  knight. 

William.  Why,  boy  ? 

William  Rufus.  Because  I broke 

The  horse’s  leg  — it  was  mine  own  to 
break ; 

I like  to  have  my  toys,  and  break  them 
too. 

William.  Well,  thou  shalt  have 
another  Norman  knight ! 

William  Rufus.  And  may  I break 
his  legs  ? 

William.  Yea,  — get  thee  gone ! 

William  Rufus.  I’ll  tell  them  I have 
had  my  way  with  thee.  [Exit. 

Malet.  I never  knew  thee  check  thy 
will  for  ought 

Save  for  the  prattling  of  thy  little  ones. 

William.  Who  shall  be  kings  of 
England.  I am  heir 

Of  England  by  the  promise  of  her  king. 

Malet.  But  there  the  great  As- 
sembly choose  their  king, 

The  choice  of  England  is  the  voice  of 
England. 

William.  I will  be  king  of  England 
by  the  laws, 

The  choice,  and  voice  of  England. 

/ Malet.  Can  that  be  ? 

William.  The  voice  of  any  people 
is  the  sword 

That  guards  them,  or  the  sword  that 
beats  them  down. 

Here  comes  the  would-be  what  I will 
be  . . . kinglike  . . . 

Tho’  scarce  at  ease ; for,  save  our 
meshes  break. 


616 


HAROLD. 


More  kinglike  he  than  like  to  prove  a 
king. 

( Enter  Harold,  musing,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  ground. ) 

He  sees  me  not  — and  yet  he  dreams 
of  me. 

Earl,  wilt  thou  fly  my  falcons  this 
fair  day  ? 

They  are  of  the  best,  strong-wing’d 
against  the  wind. 

Harold  ( looking  up  suddenly,  having 
caught  hut  the  last  word).  Which 
way  does  it  blow  'l 

William.  Blowing  for  England, 
ha  ? 

Not  yet.  Thou  hast  not  learnt  thy 
quarters  here. 

The  winds  so  cross  and  jostle  among 
these  towers. 

Harold.  Count  of  the  Normans, 
thou  hast  ransom’d  us, 
Maintain’d,  and  entertain’d  us  royally  ! 

William.  And  thou  for  us  hast 
fought  as  loyally, 

Which  binds  us  friendship-fast  for 
ever ! 

Harold.  Good ! 

But  lest  we  turn  the  scale  of  courtesy 
By  too  much  pressure  on  it,  I would 
fain, 

Since  thou  has  promised  Wulfnoth 
home  with  us, 

Be  home  again  with  Wulfnoth. 

William.  Stay  — as  yet 

Thou  hast  but  seen  how  Norman 
hands  can  strike, 

But  walk’d  our  Norman  field,  scarce 
touch’d  or  tasted 
The  splendors  of  our  Court. 

Harold.  I am  in  no  mood  : 

I should  be  as  the  shadow  of  a cloud 
Crossing  your  light. 

William.  Nay,  rest  a week  or  two, 
And  we  will  fill  thee  full  of  Norman 
sun, 

And  send  thee  back  among  thine 
island  mists 
With  laughter. 

Harold.  Count,  I thank  thee,  but 
had  rather 


Breathe  the  free  wind  from  off  our 
Saxon  downs, 

Tho’  charged  with  all  the  wet  of  all 
the  west. 

William.  Why  if  thou  wilt,  so  let  it 
be  — thou  shalt. 

That  were  a graceless  hospitality 

To  chain  the  free  guest  to  the  banquet- 
board  ; 

To-morrow  we  will  ride  with  thee  to 
Harfleur, 

And  see  thee  shipt,  and  pray  in  thy 
behalf 

For  happier  homeward  winds  than 
that  which  crack’d 

Thy  bark  at  Ponthieu,  — yet  to  us,  in 
faith, 

A happy  one  — whereby  we  came  to 
know 

Thy  valor  and  thy  value,  noble  earl. 

Ay,  and  perchance  a happy  one  for 
thee, 

Provided  — I will  go  with  thee  to- 
morrow — 

Nay — but  there  be  conditions,  easy 
ones, 

So  thou,  fair  friend,  will  take  them 
easily. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  My  lord,  there  is  a post  from 
over  seas 

With  news  for  thee.  [ Exit  Page. 

William.  Come,  Malet,  let  us  hear  ! 

[. Exeunt  Count  William  and  Malet. 

Harold.  Conditions  ? What  condi- 
tions ? pay  him  back 

His  ransom  1 “ easy  ” — that  were 

easy  — nay  — 

No  money-lover  he!  What  said  the 
King  ? 

“ I pray  you  do  not  go  to  Normandy.” 

And  fate  hath  blown  me  hither,  bound 
me  too 

With  bitter  obligation  to  the  Count  — 

Have  I not  fought  it  out  ? What  did 
he  mean  1 

There  lodged  a gleaming  grimness  in 
his  eyes, 

Gave  his  shorn  smile  the  lie.  The 
walls  oppress  me, 


HAROLD. 


617 


And  yon  huge  keep  that  hinders  half 
the  heaven. 

Free  air ! free  field ! 

[Moves  to  go  out.  A Man-at-arms 
follows  him. 

Harold  [to  the  Man-at-arms).  I need 
thee  not.  Why  dost  thou  fol- 
low me  ? 

Man-at-arms.  I have  the  Count’s 
commands  to  follow  thee. 

Harold.  What  then  1 Am  I in  dan- 
ger in  this  court  ? 

Man-at-arms.  I cannot  tell.  I have 
the  Count’s  commands. 

Harold.  Stand  out  of  earshot  then, 
and  keep  me  still 
In  eyeshot. 

Man-at-arms.  Yea,  Lord  Harold. 

[ Withdraws. 

Harold.  And  arm’d  men 

Ever  keep  watch  beside  my  chamber 
door, 

And  if  I walk  within  the  lonely  wood, 
There  is  an  arm’d  man  ever  glides  be- 
hind! 

(Enter  Malet.) 

Why  am  I follow’d,  haunted,  harass’d, 
watch’d  ? 

See  yonder ! 

[ Pointing  to  the  Man-at-arms. 

Malet.  ’Tis  the  good  Count’s  care 
for  thee ! 

The  Normans  love  thee  not,  nor  thou 
the  Normans, 

Or — so  they  deem. 

Harold.  But  wherefore  is  the  wind, 
Which  way  soever  the  vane-arrow 
swing, 

Not  ever  fair  for  England  1 Why  but 
now 

He  said  (thou  heardst  him)  that  I 
must  not  hence 
Save  on  conditions. 

Malet.  So  in  truth  he  said. 

Harold.  Malet,  thy  mother  was  an 
Englishwoman ; 

There  somewhere  beats  an  English 
pulse  in  thee ! 

Malet.  Well  — for  my  mother’s 
sake  I love  your  England, 

But  for  my  father  I love  Normandy. 


Harold.  Speak  for  thy  mother’s 
sake,  and  tell  me  true. 

Malet.  Then  for  my  mother’s  sake, 
and  England’s  sake 

That  suffers  in  the  daily  want  of 
thee, 

Obey  the  Count’s  conditions,  my  good 
friend. 

Harold.  How,  Malet,  if  they  be  not 
honorable ! 

Malet.  Seem  to  obey  them. 

Harold.  Better  die  than  lie ! 

Malet.  Choose  therefore  whether 
thou  wilt  have  thy  conscience 

White  as  a maiden’s  hand,  or  whether 
England 

Be  shatter’d  into  fragments. 

Harold.  News  from  England  ? 

Malet.  Morcar  and  Edwin  have 
stirr’d  up  the  Thanes 

Against  thy  brother  Tostig’s  govern- 
ance ; 

And  all  the  North  of  Humber  is  one 
storm. 

Harold.  I should  be  there,  Malet,  I 
should  be  there ! 

Malet.  And  Tostig  in  his  own  hall 
on  suspicion 

Hath  massacred  the  Thane  that  was 
his  guest, 

Gamel,  the  son  of  Orm  : and  there  be 
more 

As  villanously  slain. 

Harold.  The  wolf ! the  beast ! 

Ill  news  for  guests,  ha,  Malet ! More  ? 
What  more  1 

What  do  they  say  ? did  Edward  know 
of  this  ? 

Malet.  They  say,  his  wife  was  know- 
ing and  abetting. 

Harold.  They  say,  his  wife!  — To 
marry  and  have  no  husband 

Makes  the  wife  fool.  My  God,  I 
should  be  there. 

I’ll  hack  my  way  to  the  sea. 

Malet.  Thou  canst  not,  Harold ; 

Our  Duke  is  all  between  thee  and  the 
sea, 

Our  Duke  is  all  about  thee  like  a God  ; 

All  passes  block’d.  Obey  him,  speak 
him  fair, 

For  he  is  only  debonair  to  those 


618 


HAROLD. 


That  follow  where  he  leads,  but  stark 
as  death 

To  those  that  cross  him.  — Look  thou, 
here  is  Wulfnoth! 

I leave  thee  to  thy  talk  with  him 
alone ; 

How  wan,  poor  lad ! how  sick  and  sad 
for  home  ! \Exit  Malet. 

Harold  ( muttering ).  Go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy — go  not  to  Normandy  ! 

( Enter  Wulfnoth.) 

Poor  brother  ! still  a hostage  ! 

Wulfnoth.  Yea,  and  I 

Shall  see  the  dewy  kiss  of  dawn  no 
more 

Make  blush  the  maiden-white  of  our 
tall  cliffs, 

Nor  mark  the  sea-bird  rouse  himself 
and  hover 

Above  the  windy  ripple,  and  fill  the  sky 
With  free  sea-laughter  — never  — 
save  indeed 

Thou  canst  make  yield  this  iron- 
mooded  Duke 
To  let  me  go. 

Harold.  Why,  brother,  so  he  will ; 
But  on  conditions.  Canst  thou  guess 
at  them  ? 

Wulfnoth.  Draw  nearer,  — I was  in 
the  corridor, 

I saw  him  coming  with  his  brother  Odo 
The  Bayeux  bishop,  and  I hid  myself. 

Harold.  They  did  thee  wrong  who 
made  thee  hostage  ; thou 
Wast  ever  fearful. 

Wulfnoth.  And  he  spoke  — I 

heard  him  — 

“ This  Harold  is  not  of  the  royal  blood, 
Can  have  no  right  to  the  crown,”  and 
Odo  said, 

“Thine  is  the  right,  for  thine  the 
might ; he  is  here, 

And  yonder  is  thy  keep.” 

Harold.  No,  Wulfnoth,  no. 

Wulfnoth.  And  William  laugh’d  and 
swore  that  might  was  right, 
Far  as  he  knew  in  this  poor  world  of 
ours  — 

“ Marry,  the  Saints  must  go  along  with 
us, 


And,  brother,  we  will  find  a way,”  said 
he  — 

Yea, yea,  he  would  be  king  of  England. 

Harold.  Never ! 

Widfnoth.  Yea,  but  thou  must  not 
this  way  answer  him. 

Harold.  Is  it  not  better  still  to 
speak  the  truth  ? 

Wulfnoth.  Not  here,  or  thou  wilt 
never  hence  nor  I 

For  in  the  racing  toward  this  golden 
goal 

He  turns  not  right  or  left,  but  tram- 
ples flat 

Whatever  thwarts  him ; hast  thou 
never  heard 

His  savagery  at  Alen^on,  — the  town 

Hung  out  raw  hides  along  their  walls, 
and  cried 

“Work  for  the  tanner.” 

Harold.  That  had  anger’d  me 

Had  I been  William. 

Wulfnoth.  Nay,  but  he  had  prison- 
ers, 

He  tore  their  eyes  out,  sliced  their 
hands  away, 

And  flung  them  streaming  o’er  the 
battlements 

Upon  the  heads  of  those  who  walk’d 
within  — 

O speak  him  fair,  Harold,  for  thine 
own  sake. 

Harold.  Your  Welshman  says, 
“The  Truth  against  the 
World,” 

Much  more  the  truth  against  myself. 

Wulfnoth.  Thyself  ri 

But  for  my  sake,  oh  brother ! oh  ! for 
my  sake ! 

Harold.  Poor  Wulfnoth!  do  they 
not  entreat  thee  well  ? 

Wulfnoth.  I see  the  blackness  of 
my  dungeon  loom 

Across  their  lamps  of  revel,  and  be- 
yond 

The  merriest  murmurs  of  their  ban- 
quet clank 

The  shackles  that  will  bind  me  to  the 
wall. 

Harold.  Too  fearful  still ! 

Wulfnoth.  Oh  no,  no  — speak 

him  fair ! 


HAROLD. 


619 


Call  it  to  temporize  ; and  not  to  lie ; 

Harold,  I do  not  counsel  thee  to  lie. 

The  man  that  hath  to  foil  a murder- 
ous aim 

May,  surely,  play  with  words. 

Harold.  Words  are  the  man. 

Not  ev’n  for  thy  sake,  brother,  would 
I lie. 

Wulfnoth.  Then  for  thine  Edith  ? 

Harold.  There  thou  prick’st  me 
deep. 

Wulfnoth.  And  for  our  Mother 
England  ? 

Harold.  Deeper  still. 

Wulfnoth.  And  deeper  still  the 
deep-down  oubliette, 

Down  thirty  feet  below  the  smiling 
day — 

In  blackness — dogs’  food  thrown  upon 
thy  head. 

And  over  thee  the  suns  arise  and  set, 

And  the  lark  sings,  the  sweet  stars 
come  and  go, 

And  men  are  at  their  markets,  in  their 
fields, 

And  woo  their  loves  and  have  forgot- 
ten thee ; 

And  thou  art  upright  in  thy  living 
grave, 

Where  there  is  barely  room  to  shift 
thy  side, 

And  all  thine  England  hath  forgotten 
thee ; 

And  he  our  lazy-pious  Norman  King, 

With  all  his  Normans  round  him  once 
again, 

Counts  his  old  heads,  and  hath  for- 
gotten thee. 

Harold.  Thou  art  of  my  blood,  and 
so  methinks,  my  boy, 

Thy  fears  infect  me  beyond  reason. 
Peace ! 

Wulfnoth.  And  then  our  fiery  Tos- 
tig,  while  thy  hands 

Are  palsied  here,  if  his  Northumbri- 
ans rise 

And  hurl  him  from  them,  — I have 
heard  the  Normans 

Count  upon  this  confusion  — may  he 
not  make 

A fcague  with  William,  so  to  bring 
him  back  1 


Harold.  That  lies  within  the 
shadow  of  the  chance. 

Wulfnoth.  And  like  a river  in  flood 
thro’  a burst  dam 

Descends  the  ruthless  Norman  — our 
good  King 

Kneels  mumbling  some  old  bone  — 
our  helpless  folk 

Are  wash’d  away,  wailing,  in  their 
own  blood  — 

Harold.  Wailing!  not  warring? 
Boy,  thou  hast  forgotten 

That  thou  art  English. 

Wulfnoth.  Then  our  modest  wo- 
men — 

I know  the  Norman  license  — thine 
own  Edith  — 

Harold.  No  more ! I will  not  hear 
thee — William  comes. 

Wulfnoth.  I dare  not  well  be  seen 
in  talk  with  thee. 

Make  thou  not  mention  that  I spake 
with  thee. 

[Moves  away  to  the  hack  of  the  stage. 

Enter  William,  Malet,  and  Officer. 

Officer.  We  have  the  man  that 
rail’d  against  thy  birth. 

William.  Tear  out  his  tongue. 

Officer.  He  shall  not  rail  again. 

He  said  that  he  should  see  confusion 
fall 

On  thee  and  on  thine  house. 

William.  Tear  out  his  eyes, 

And  plunge  him  into  prison. 

Officer.  It  shall  be  done. 

[Exit  Officer. 

William.  Look  not  amazed,  fair 
earl ! Better  leave  undone 

Than  do  by  halves — tongueless  and 
eyeless,  prison’d  — 

Harold.  Better  methinks  have 
slain  the  man  at  once ! 

William.  We  have  respect  for 
man’s  immortal  soul, 

We  seldom  take  man’s  life,  except  in 
war ; 

It  frights  the  traitor  more  to  maim 
and  blind. 

Harold.  In  mine  own  land  I should 
have  scorn’d  the  man, 


620 


HAROLD. 


Or  lash’d  his  rascal  back,  and  let  him 
go. 

William.  And  let  him  go  ? To 
slander  thee  again  ! 

Yet  in  thine  own  land  in  thy  father’s 
day 

They  blinded  my  young  kinsman, 
Alfred  — ay, 

Some  said  it  was  thy  father’s  deed. 

Harold.  They  lied. 

William . But  thou  and  he  — whom 
at  thy  word,  for  thou 

Art  known  a speaker  of  the  truth,  I 
free 

From  this  foul  charge  — 

Harold.  Nay,  nay,  he  freed  himself 

By  oath  and  compurgation  from  the 
charge. 

The  king,  the  lords,  the  people  clear’d 
him  of  it. 

William.  But  thou  and  he  drove 
our  good  Normans  out 

From  England,  and  this  rankles  in 
us  yet. 

Archbishop  Robert  hardly  scaped 
with  life. 

Harold.  Archbishop  Robert!  Rob- 
ert the  Archbishop ! 

Robert  of  Jumieges,  he  that  — 

Malet.  Quiet ! quiet ! 

Harold.  Count ! if  there  sat  with- 
in the  Norman  chair 

A ruler  all  for  England  — one  who 
fill’d 

All  offices,  all  bishopricks  with  Eng- 
lish — 

We  could  not  move  from  Dover  to 
the  Humber 

Saving  thro’  Norman  bishopricks  — I 
say 

Ye  would  applaud  that  Norman  who 
should  drive 

The  stranger  to  the  fiends ! 

William.  Why,  that  is  reason  ! 

Warrior  thou  art,  and  mighty  wise 
withal ! 

Ay,  ay,  but  many  among  our  Norman 
lords 

Hate  thee  for  this,  and  press  upon 
me  — saying 

God  and  the  sea  have  given  thee  to 
our  hands  — 


To  plunge  thee  into  life-long  prison 
here  : — 

Yet  I hold  out  against  them,  as  I may, 

Yea  — would  hold  out,  yea,  tho’  they 
should  revolt  — 

For  thou  hast  done  the  battle  in  my 
cause ; 

I am  thy  fastest  friend  in  Normandy. 

Harold.  I am  doubly  bound  to  thee 
...  if  this  be  so. 

William.  And  I would  bind  thee 
more,  and  would  myself 

Be  bounden  to  thee  more. 

Harold.  Then  let  me  hence 

With  Wulfnoth  to  King  Edward. 

William.  So  we  will. 

We  hear  he  hath  not  long  to  live. 

Harold.  It  may  be. 

William.  Why  then  the  heir  of 
England,  who  is  he  1 

Harold.  The  Atheling  is  nearest 
to  the  throne. 

William.  But  sickly,  slight,  half- 
witted and  a child, 

Will  England  have  him  king  ? 

Harold.  It  may  be,  no. 

William.  And  hath  King  Edward 
not  pronounced  his  heir  ? 

Harold.  Not  that  I know. 

William.  When  he  was  here 
in  Normandy, 

He  loved  us  and  we  him,  because  we 
found  him 

A Norman  of  the  Normans. 

Harold.  So  did  we. 

William.  A gentle,  gracious,  pure 
and  saintly  man! 

And  grateful  to  the  hand  that  shielded 
him, 

He  promised  that  if  ever  he  were  king 

In  England,  he  would  give  his  kingly 
voice 

To  me  as  his  successor.  Knowest 
thou  this  ? 

Harold.  I learn  it  now. 

William.  Thou  knowest  I am 

his  cousin, 

And  that  my  wife  descends  from 
Alfred  ? 

Harold.  Ay. 

William.  Who  hath  a better  claim 
then  to  the  crown 


HAROLD. 


621 


So  that  ye  will  not  crown  the  Athel- 
ing  ? 

Harold.  None  that  I know  ...  if 
that  but  hung  upon 

King  Edward’s  will. 

William.  Wilt  thou  uphold  my 
claim  ? 

Malet  (aside  to  Harold).  Be  careful 
of  thine  answer,  my  good  friend. 

Wulfnoth  (aside  to  Harold).  Oh ! 
Harold,  for  my  sake  and  for 
thine  own  ! 

Harold.  Ay  ...  if  the  king  have 
not  revoked  his  promise. 

William.  But  hath  he  done  it 
then  ? 

Harold.  Not  that  I know. 

William.  Good,  good,  and  thou 
wilt  help  me  to  the  crown  ? 

Harold.  Ay  ...  if  the  Witan  will 
consent  to  this. 

William.  Thou  art  the  mightiest 
voice  in  England,  man, 

Thy  voice  will  lead  the  Witan  — 
shall  I have  it  ? 

Widfnoth  (aside  to  Harold).  Oh! 
Harold,  if  thou  love  thine  Edith, 
ay. 

Harold.  Ay,  if  — 

Malet  (aside  to  Harold).  Thine 
“ if s ” will  sear  thine  eyes  out 
— ay. 

William.  I ask  thee,  wilt  thou  help 
me  to  the  crown  ? 

And  I will  make  thee  my  great  Earl 
of  Earls, 

Foremost  in  England  and  in  Nor- 
mandy ; 

Thou  shalt  be  verily  king  — all  but 
the  name  — 

For  I shall  most  sojourn  in  Nor- 
mandy ; 

And  thou  be  my  vice-king  in  Eng- 
land. Speak. 

Wulfnoth  (aside  to  Harold).  Ay, 
brother  — for  the  sake  of  Eng- 
land — ay. 

Harold.  My  lord  — 

Malet  (aside  to  Harold).  Take  heed 
now. 

Harold.  Ay. 

William.  I am  content, 


For  thou  art  truthful,  and  thy  word 
thy  bond. 

To-morrow  will  we  ride  with  thee  to 
Harfleur.  [Exit  William. 

Malet.  Harold,  I am  thy  friend, 
one  life  with  thee, 

And  even  as  I should  bless  thee  saving 
mine, 

I thank  thee  now  for  having  saved 
thyself.  [Exit  Malet. 

Harold.  For  having  lost  myself 
to  save  myself, 

Said  “ ay  ” when  I meant  “ no,”  lied 
like  a lad 

That  dreads  the  pendent  scourge, 
said  “ ay  ” for  “ no  ” ! 

Ay  ! No  ! — he  hath  not  bound  me  by 
an  oath  — 

Is  “ ay  ” an  oath  ? is  “ ay  ” strong  as 
an  oath  ? 

Or  is  it  the  same  sin  to  break  my  word 

As  break  mine  oath  ? He  call’d  my 
word  my  bond  ! 

He  is  a liar  who  knows  I am  a liar, 

And  makes  me  believe  that  he  believes 
my  word  — 

The  crime  be  on  his  head — not 
bounden  — no. 

[ Suddenly  doors  are  flung  open,  dis- 
covering in  an  inner  hall  Count 
William  in  his  state  robes,  seated 
upon  his  throne,  between  two 
Bishops,  Odo  of  Bayeux  being 
one : in  the  centre  of  the  hall  an 
ark  covered  with  cloth  of  gold; 
and  on  either  side  of  it  the  Nor- 
man barons. 

Enter  a Jailor  before  William’s  throne. 

William  (to  Jailor).  Knave,  hast 
let  thy  prisoner  scape  1 

Jailor.  Sir  Count, 

He  had  but  one  foot,  he  must  have 
hopt  aw’ay, 

Yea,  some  familiar  spirit  must  have 
help’d  him. 

William.  Woe  knave  to  thy  familiar 
and  to  thee ! 

Give  me  thy  keys.  [ They  fall  clashing. 

Nay  let  them  lie.  Stand  there  and 
wait  my  will. 

[ The  Jailor  stands  aside. 


622 


HAROLD. 


William  (to  Harold).  Hast  thou 
such  trustless  jailors  in  thy 
North  ? 

Harold.  We  have  few  prisoners  in 
mine  earldom  there, 

So  less  chance  for  false  keepers. 

William.  We  have  heard 

Of  thy  just,  mild,  and  equal  gover- 
nance ; 

Honor  to  thee  ! thou  art  perfect  in  all 
honor ! 

Thy  naked  word  thy  bond ! confirm  it 
now 

Before  our  gather’d  Norman  baronage, 

For  they  will  not  believe  me  — as  I 
believe. 

[. Descends  from  his  throne  and 
stands  by  the  ark. 

Let  all  men  here  bear  witness  of  our 
bond ! 

[. Beckons  to  Harold,  who  advances. 

Enter  Maj.et  behind  him. 

Lay  thou  thy  hand  upon  this  golden 
pall ! 

Behold  the  jewel  of  St.  Pancratius 

Woven  into  the  gold.  Swear  thou  on 
this ! 

Harold.  What  should  I swear  ? 
Why  should  I swear  on  this  ? 

William  (savagely).  Swear  thou  to 
help  me  to  the  crown  of  Eng- 
land. 

Malet  (whispering  Harold).  My 
friend,  thou  hast  gone  too  far 
to  palter  now. 

Wulfnoth  (whispering  Harold). 
Swear  thou  to-day,  to-morrow 
is  thine  own. 

Harold.  I swear  to  help  thee  to  the 
crown  of  England  . . . 

According  as  King  Edward  promises. 

William.  Thou  must  swear  abso- 
lutely, noble  Earl. 

Malet  (whispering).  Delay  is  death 
to  thee,  ruin  to  England. 

Wulfnoth  (whispering).  Swear,  dear- 
est brother,  I beseech  thee, 
swear ! 

Harold  (putting  his  hand  on  the  jewel). 
I swear  to  help  thee  to  the 
crown  of  England. 


William.  Thanks,  truthful  Earl;  I 
did  not  doubt  thy  word, 

But  that  my  barons  might  believe  thy 
word, 

And  that  the  Holy  Saints  of  Normandy 

When  thou  art  home  in  England,  with 
thine  own, 

Might  strengthen  thee  in  keeping  of 
thy  word, 

I made  thee  swear. —'Show  him  by 
whom  he  hath  sworn. 

\The  two  Bishops  advance,  and 
raise  the  cloth  of  gold.  The  bodies 
and  bones  of  Saints  are  seen  lying 
in  the  ark. 

The  holy  bones  of  all  the  Canonized 

From  all  the  holiest  shrines  in  Nor- 
mandy ! 

Harold.  Horrible!  [ They  let  the 
cloth  fall  again. 

William.  Ay,  for  thou  hast  sworn 
an  oath 

Which,  if  not  kept,  would  make  the 
hard  earth  rive 

To  the  very  Devil’s  horns,  the  bright 
sky  cleave 

To  the  very  feet  of  God,  and  send  her 
hosts 

Of  injured  Saints  to  scatter  sparks  of 
plague 

Thro’  all  your  cities,  blast  your  in- 
fants, dash 

The  torch  of  war  among  your  standing 
corn, 

Dabble  your  hearths  with  your  own 
blood.  — Enough ! 

Thou  wilt  not  break  it ! I,  the  Count 
— the  King  — 

Thy  friend  — am  grateful  for  thine 
honest  oath, 

Not  coming  fiercely  like  a conqueror, 
now, 

But  softly  as  a bridegroom  to  his  own. 

For  I shall  rule  according  to  your 
laws, 

And  make  your  ever- jarring  Earldoms 
move 

To  music  and  in  order  — Angle,  Jute, 

Dane,  Saxon,  Norman,  help  to  build  a 
throne 

Out-towering  hers  of  France  . . . The 
wind  is  fair 


HAROLD. 


623 


For  England  now  . . . To-night  we 
will  be  merry. 

To-morrow  will  I ride  with  thee  to 
Harfleur. 

[ Exeunt  William  and  all  the  Nor- 
man barons,  etc. 

Harold.  To-night  we  will  be  merry 
— and  to-morrow  — 

Juggler  and  bastard  — bastard  — he 
hates  that  most  — 

William  the  tanner’s  bastard  ! Would 
he  heard  me ! 

0 God,  that  1 were  in  some  wide, 

waste  field 

With  nothing  but  my  battle-axe  and 
him 

To  spatter  his  brains  ! Why  let  earth 
rive,  gulf  in 

These  cursed  Normans  — yea  and 
mine  own  self. 

Cleave  heaven,  and  send  thy  saints 
that  I may  say 

Ev’n  to  their  faces,  “ If  ye  side  with 
William 

Ye  are  not  noble.”  How  their  pointed 
fingers 

Glared  at  me  ! Am  I Harold,  Harold, 
son 

Of  our  great  Godwin  ? Lo  ! I touch 
mine  arms, 

My  limbs — they  are  not  mine  — they 
are  a liar’s  — 

1 mean  to  be  a liar  — I am  not  bound  — 

Stigand  shall  give  me  absolution  for 

it  — 

Did  the  chest  move  ? did  it  move  ? 
I am  utter  craven  ! 

0 Wulfnoth,  Wulfnoth,  brother,  thou 
hast  betray’d  me ! 

Wulfnoth.  Forgive  me,  brother,  I 
will  live  here  and  die. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  My  lord ! the  Duke  awaits 
thee  at  the  banquet. 

Harold.  Where  they  eat  dead  men’s 
flesh,  and  drink  their  blood. 

Page.  My  lord  — 

Harold.  I know  your  Norman 
cookery  is  so  spiced, 

It  masks  all  this. 


Page.  My  lord  ! thou  art  white 
as  death. 

Harold.  With  looking  on  the  dead. 
Am  I so  white  ? 

Thy  Duke  will  seem  the  darker. 
Hence,  I follow.  [ Exeunt . 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — The  King’s  Palace. 

London. 

King  Edward  dying  on  a couch,  and 
by  him  standing  the  Queen,  Harold, 
Archbishop  Stigand,  Gurth, 
Leofwin,  Archbishop  Aldred, 
Aldwyth,  and  Edith. 

Stigand.  Sleeping  or  dying  there  ? 
If  this  be  death, 

Then  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown 
thee  King  — 

Come  hither,  I have  a power ; 

[ To  Harold. 

They  call  me  near,  for  I am  close  to 
thee 

And  England  — I,  old  slirivell’d 
Stigand,  I, 

Dry  as  an  old  wood-fungus  on  a dead 
tree, 

I have  a power ! 

See  here  this  little  key  about  my  neck  ! 

There  lies  a treasure  buried  down  in 
Ely: 

If  e’er  the  Norman  grow  too  hard  for 
thee, 

Ask  me  for  this  at  thy  most  need, 
son  Harold, 

At  thy  most  need  — not  sooner. 
Harold.  So  I will. 

Stigand.  Red  gold  — a hundred 
purses  — yea,  and  more  ! 

If  thou  canst  make  a wholesome  use 
of  these 

To  chink  against  the  Norman,  I do 
believe 

My  old  crook’d  spine  would  bud  out 
two  young  wings 

To  fly  to  heaven  straight  with. 

Harold.  Thank  thee,  father! 

Thou  art  English,  Edward  too  is  Eng- 
lish now, 


624 


HAROLD. 


He  hath  clean  repented  of  his  Nor- 
manism. 

Stigand.  Ay,  as  the  libertine  re- 
pents who  cannot 

Make  done  undone,  when  thro’  his 
dying  sense 

Shrills  “ lost  thro’  thee.”  They  have 
built  their  castles  here ; 

Our  priories  are  Norman ; the  Norman 
adder 

Hath  bitten  us  ; we  are  poison’d : our 
dear  England 

Is  demi-Norman.  He  ! — 

[ Pointing  to  King  Edward,  sleeping. 

Harold.  I would  I were 

As  holy  and  as  passionless  as  he ! 

That  I might  rest  as  calmly  ! Look 
at  him  — 

The  rosy  face,  and  long  down-silver- 
ing beard, 

The  brows  un wrinkled  as  a summer 
mere.  — 

Stigand.  A summer  mere  with  sud- 
den wreckful  gusts 

From  a side-gorge.  Passionless  1 How 
he  flamed 

When  Tostig’s  anger’d  earldom  flung 
him,  nay, 

He  fain  had  calcined  all  Northumbria 

To  one  black  ash,  but  that  thy  patriot 
passion 

Siding  with  our  great  Council  against 
Tostig, 

Outpassion’d  his  ! Holy  ? ay,  ay,  for- 
sooth, 

A conscience  for  his  own  soul,  not  his 
realm ; 

A twilight  conscience  lighted  thro’  a 
chink ; 

Thine  by  the  sun;  nay,  by  some  sun 
to  be, 

When  all  the  world  hath  learnt  to 
speak  the  truth, 

And  lying  were  self-murder  by  that 
state 

Which  was  the  exception. 

Harold.  That  sun  may  God  speed ! 

Stigand.  Come,  Harold  shake  the 
cloud  off ! 

Harold.  Can  I,  father  ? 

Our  Tostig  parted  cursing  me  and 
England; 


Our  sister  hates  us  for  his  banish- 
ment; 

He  hath  gone  to  kindle  Norway  against 
England, 

And  Wulfnoth  is  alone  in  Normandy. 
For  when  I rode  with  William  down 
to  Harfleur, 

“Wulfnoth  is  sick,”  he  said;  “he 
cannot  follow ; ” 

Then  with  that  friendly-fiendly  smile 
of  his, 

“ We  have  learnt  to  love  him,  let  him 
a little  longer 

Remain  a hostage  for  the  loyalty 
Of  Godwin’s  house.”  As  far  as 
touches  Wulfnoth 

I that  so  prized  plain  word  and  naked 
truth 

Have  sinn’d  against  it  — all  in  vain. 

Leofwin.  Good  brother, 

By  all  the  truths  that  ever  priest  hath 
preach’d, 

Of  all  the  lies  that  ever  men  have  lied, 
Thine  is  the  pardonablest. 

Harold.  May  be  so  ! 

I think  it  so,  I think  I am  a fool 
To  think  it  can  be  otherwise  than  so. 

Stigand.  Tut,  tut,  I have  absolved 
thee  : dost  thou  scorn  me, 
Because  I had  my  Canterbury  pallium 
From  one  whom  they  dispoped  ? 

Harold.  No,  Stigand,  no ! 

Stigand.  Is  naked  truth  actable  in 
true  life  ? 

I have  heard  a saying  of  thy  father 
Godwin, 

That,  were  a man  of  state  nakedly 
true, 

Men  would  but  take  him  for  the 
craftier  liar. 

Leofwin.  Be  men  less  delicate  than 
the  Devil  himself  ? 

I thought  that  naked  Truth  would 
shame  the  Devil 
The  Devil  is  so  modest. 

Gurth.  He  never  said  it! 

Leofwin.  Be  thou  not  stupid-honest, 
brother  Gurth ! 

Harold.  Better  to  be  a liar’s  dog, 
and  hold 

My  master  honest,  than  believe  that 
lying 


HAROLD. 


625 


And  ruling  men  are  fatal  twins  that 
cannot 

Move  one  without  the  other.  Ed- 
ward wakes  ! — 

Dazed  — he  hath  seen  a vision. 

Edicard.  The  green  tree  ! 

Then  a great  Angel  past  along  the 
highest 

Crying  “the  doom  of  England/’  and 
at  once 

He  stood  beside  me,  in  his  grasp  a 
sword 

Of  lightnings,  wherewithal  he  cleft 
the  tree 

From  off  the  bearing  trunk,  and 
hurl’d  it  from  him 

Three  fields  away,  and  then  he  dash’d 
and  drench’d, 

He  dyed,  he  soak’d  the  trunk  with 
human  blood, 

And  brought  the  sunder’d  tree  again, 
and  set  it 

Straight  on  the  trunk,  that  thus  bap- 
tized in  blood 

Grew  ever  high  and  higher,  beyond 
my  seeing, 

And  shot  out  sidelong  boughs  across 
the  deep 

That  dropt  themselves,  and  rooted  in 
far  isles 

Beyond  my  seeing : and  the  great 
Angel  rose 

And  past  again  along  the  highest  cry- 
ing 

“The  doom  of  England!”  — Tostig, 
raise  my  head ! 

[Falls  back  senseless. 

Harold  ( raising  him).  Let  Harold 
serve  for  Tostig ! 

Queen.  Harold  served 

Tostig  so  ill,  he  cannot  serve  for  Tos- 
tig! 

Ay,  raise  his  head,  for  thou  hast  laid 
it  low ! 

The  sickness  of  our  saintly  king,  for 
whom 

My  prayers  go  up  as  fast  as  my  tears 
fall, 

I well  believe,  hath  mainly  drawn  it- 
self 

From  lack  of  Tostig — thou  hast  ban- 
ish’d him. 


Harold.  Nay — but  the  council,  and 
the  king  himself. 

Queen.  Thou  hatest  him,  hatest 
him. 

Harold  (coldly).  Ay  — Stigand, 
unriddle 

This  vision,  canst  thou  ? 

Stigand.  Dotage ! 

Edward  ( starting  up).  It  is  finish’d. 

I have  built  the  Lord  a house  — the 
Lord  hath  dwelt 

In  darkness.  I have  built  the  Lord  a 
house  — 

Palms,  flowers,  pomegranates,  golden 
cherubim 

With  twenty-cubit  wings  from  wall  to 
wall  — 

I have  built  the  Lord  a house- — sing, 
Asaph ! clash 

The  cymbal,  Heman ! blow  the  trum- 
pet, priest ! 

Fall,  cloud,  and  fill  the  house  — lo  ! 
my  two  pillars, 

Jacliin  and  Boaz  ! — 

[. Seeing  Harold  and  Gurth. 
Harold,  Gurth,  — where  am  I ? 

Where  is  the  charter  of  our  Westmin- 
ster ? 

Stigand.  It  lies  beside  thee,  king, 
upon  thy  bed. 

Edward.  Sign,  sign  at  once  — take, 
sign  it,  Stigand,  Aldred  ! 

Sign  it,  my  good  son  Harold,  Gurth, 
and  Leofwin, 

Sign  it,  my  queen  ! 

All.  We  have  sign’d  it. 

Edicard.  It  is  finish’d ! 

The  kingliest  Abbey  in  all  Christian 
lands, 

The  lordliest,  loftiest  minster  ever 
built 

To  Holy  Peter  in  our  English  isle ! 

Let  me  be  buried  there,  and  all  our 
kings, 

And  all  our  just  and  wise  and  holy 
men 

That  shall  be  born  hereafter.  It  is 
finish’d  ! 

Hast  thou  had  absolution  for  thine 
oath?  [To  Harold. 

Harold.  Stigand  hath  given  me 
absolution  for  it. 


626 


HAROLD. 


Edward.  Stigand  is  not  canonical 
enough 

To  save  thee  from  the  wrath  of  Nor- 
man Saints. 

Stigand.  Norman  enough  ! Be 
there  no  Saints  of  England 

To  help  us  from  their  brethren  yon- 
der 1 

Edward.  Prelate, 

The  Saints  are  one,  but  those  of  Nor- 
manland 

Are  mightier  than  our  own.  Ask  it  of 
Aldred.  [To  Harold. 

Aldred.  It  shall  be  granted  him, 
my  king ; for  he 

Who  vows  a vow  to  strangle  his  own 
mother 

Is  guiltier  keeping  this,  than  breaking 
it. 

Edward.  0 friends,  I shall  not  over- 
live the  day. 

Stigand.  Why  then  the  throne  is 
empty.  Who  inherits  1 

For  tho’  we  be  not  bound  by  the  king’s 
voice 

In  making  of  a king,  yet  the  king’s 
voice 

Is  much  toward  his  making.  Who 
inherits  ? 

Edgar  the  Atheling  ? 

Edward.  No,  no,  but  Harold. 

I love  him  : he  hath  served  me : none 
but  he 

Can  rule  all  England.  Yet  the  curse 
is  on  him 

For  swearing  falsely  by  those  blessed 
bones ; 

He  did  not  mean  to  keep  his  vow. 

Harold.  Not  mean 

To  make  our  England  Norman. 

Edward.  There  spake  Godwin, 

Who  hated  all  the  Normans  ; but  their 
Saints 

Have  heard  thee,  Harold. 

Edith.  Oh  ! my  lord,  my  king  ! 

He  knew  not  whom  he  sware  by. 

Edward.  Yea,  I know 

He  knew  not,  but  those  heavenly  ears 
have  heard, 

Their  curse  is  on  him;  wilt  thou  bring 
another, 

Edith,  upon  his  head  1 


Edith.  No,  no,  not  I. 

Edward.  Why  then,  thou  must  not 
wed  him. 

Harold.  Wherefore,  wherefore  ? 

Edward.  0 son,  when  thou  didst 
tell  me  of  thine  oath, 

I sorrow’d  for  my  random  promise 
given 

To  yon  fox-lion.  I did  not  dream 
then 

I should  be  king.  — My  son,  the  Saints 
are  virgins ; 

They  love  the  white  rose  of  virginity, 

The  cold,  white  lily  blowing  in  her 
cell: 

I have  been  myself  a virgin ; and  I 
sware 

To  consecrate  my  virgin  here  to 
heaven  — 

The  silent,  cloister’d,  solitary  life, 

A life  of  life-long  prayer  against  the 
curse 

That  lies  on  thee  and  England. 

Harold.  No,  no,  no. 

Edward.  Treble  denial  of  the 
tongue  of  flesh, 

Like  Peter’s  when  he  fell,  and  thou 
wilt  have 

To  wail  for  it  like  Peter.  O my 
son ! 

Are  all  oaths  to  be  broken  then,  all 
promises 

Made  in  our  agony  for  help  from 
heaven  1 

Son,  there  is  one  who  loves  thee: 
and  a wife, 

What  matters  who,  so  she  be  service- 
able 

In  all  obedience,  as  mine  own  hath 
been: 

God  bless  thee,  wedded  daughter. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  the  Queen’s  head. 

Queen.  Bless  thou  too 

That  brother  whom  I love  beyond  the 
rest, 

My  banish’d  Tostig. 

Edward.  All  the  sweet  Saints 

bless  him ! 

Spare  and  forbear  him,  Harold,  if  he 
comes ! 

And  let  him  pass  unscathed  ; he  loves 
me,  Harold! 


HAROLD. 


627 


Be  kindly  to  the  Normans  left  among 
us, 

Who  follow’d  me  for  love ! and  dear 
son,  swear 

When  thou  art  king,  to  see  my  solemn 
vow 

Accomplish’d. 

Harold.  Nay,  dear  lord,  for  I have 
sworn 

Not  to  swear  falsely  twice. 

Edward.  Thou  wilt  not  swear  ? 

Harold.  I cannot. 

Edward.  Then  on  thee  remains 

the  curse, 

Harold,  if  thou  embrace  her : and  on 
thee, 

Edith,  if  thou  abide  it,  — 

[The  King  swoons ; Edith  falls  and 
kneels  by  the  couch. 

Stigand.  He  hath  swoon’d ! 

Death  ? . . . no,  as  yet  a breath. 

Harold.  Look  up ! look  up  ! 

Edith ! 

Aldred.  Confuse  her  not ; she  hath 
begun 

Her  life-long  prayer  for  thee. 

Aldwyth.  O noble  Harold, 

I would  thou  couldst  have  sworn. 

Harold.  For  thine  own  pleasure1? 

Aldwyth.  No,  but  to  please  our 
dying  king,  and  those 

Who  make  thy  good  their  own — all 
England,  Earl. 

Aldred.  I would  thou  couldst  have 
sworn.  Our  holy  king 

Hath  given  his  virgin  lamb  to  Holy 
Church 

To  save  thee  from  the  curse. 

Harold.  Alas  ! poor  man, 

His  promise  brought  it  on  me. 

Aldred.  O good  son ! 

That  knowledge  made  him  all  the 
carefuller 

To  find  a means  whereby  the  curse 
might  glance 

From  thee  and  England. 

Harold.  Father,  we  so  loved  — 

Aldred.  The  more  the  love,  the 
mightier  is  the  prayer ; 

The  more  the  love, themore acceptable 

The  sacrifice  of  both  your  loves  to 
heaven. 


No  sacrifice  to  heaven,  no  help  from 
heaven  ; 

That  runs  thro’  all  the  faiths  of  all 
the  world. 

And  sacrifice  there  must  be,  for  the 
king 

Is  holy,  and  hath  talk’d  with  God, 
and  seen 

A shadowing  horror ; there  are  signs 
in  heaven  — 

Harold.  Your  comet  came  and  went. 

Aldred.  And  signs  on  earth  ! 

Knowest  thou  Senlac  hill  ? 

Harold.  I know  all  Sussex  ; 

A good  entrenchment  for  a perilous 
hour  ! 

Aldred.  Pray  God  that  come  not 
suddenly  ! There  is  one 

Who  passing  by  that  hill  three  nights 
ago  — 

He  shook  so  that  he  scarce  could  out 
with  it  — 

Heard,  heard  — 

Harold.  The  wind  in  his  hair? 

Aldred.  A ghostly  horn 

Blowing  continually,  and  faint  battle- 
hymns, 

And  cries,  and  clashes,  and  the  groans 
of  men ; 

And  dreadful  shadows  strove  upon 
the  hill, 

And  dreadful  lights  crept  up  from  out 
the  marsh  — 

Corpse-candles  gliding  over  nameless 
graves  — 

Harold.  At  Senlac  ? 

Aldred.  Senlac. 

Edward  [waking).  Senlac!  Sangue- 
lac, 

The  Lake  of  Blood ! 

Stigand.  This  lightning  before 
death 

Plays  on  the  word,  — and  Normanizes 
too  ! 

Harold.  Hush,  father,  hush  ! 

Edward.  Thou  uneanonieal  fool^ 

Wilt  thou  play  with  the  thunder  ? 
North  and  South 

Thunder  together,  showers  of  blood 
are  blown 

Before  a never  ending  blast,  and 
hiss 


628 


HAROLD . 


Against  the  blaze  they  cannot  quench 
— a lake, 

A sea  of  blood  — we  are  drown’d  in 
blood  — for  God 

Has  fill’d  the  quiver,  and  Death  has 
drawn  the  bow  — 

Sanguelac ! Sanguelac  ! the  arrow ! the 
arrow ! [Dies. 

Stigand.  It  is  the  arrow  of  death  in 
his  own  heart  — 

And  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown 
thee  King. 


SCENE  II.  — In  the  Garden.  The 
King’s  House  near  London. 

Edith.  Crown’d,  crown’d  and  lost, 
crown’d  King  — and  lost  to  me! 

( Singing. ) 

Two  young  lovers  in  winter  weather, 
None  to  guide  them, 

Walk’d  at  night  on  the  misty  heather ; 

Night,  as  black  as  a raven’s  feather ; 

Both  were  lost  and  found  together, 
None  beside  them. 

That  is  the  burthen  of  it  — lost  and 
found 

Together  in  the  cruel  river  Swale 

A hundred  years  ago;  and  there’s 
another, 

Lost,  lost,  the  light  of  day, 

To  which  the  lover  answers  lovingly 

“ I am  beside  thee.” 

Lost,  lost,  we  have  lost  the  way. 

“ Love,  I will  guide  thee.” 
Whither,  O whither  1 into  the  river, 
Where  we  two  may  be  lost  together, 
And  lost  for  ever  1 “ Oh  ! never,  oh  ! 
never, 

Tho’  we  be  lost  and  be  found  to- 
gether.” 

Some  think  they  loved  within  the  pale 
forbidden 

By  Holy  Church  : but  who  shall  say  ? 
the  truth 

Was  lost  in  that  fierce  North,  where 
they  were  lost. 


Where  all  good  things  are  lost,  where 
Tostig  lost 

The  good  hearts  of  his  people.  It  is 
Harold ! 


( Enter  Harold.) 

Harold  the  King ! 

Harold.  Call  me  not  King, 

but  Harold. 

Edith.  Nay,  thou  art  King  ! 

Harold.  Thine,  thine,  or  King 

or  churl ! 

My  girl,  thou  hast  been  weeping  : turn 
not  thou 

Thy  face  away,  but  rather  let  me  be 

King  of  the  moment  to  thee,  and  com- 
mand 

That  kiss  my  due  when  subject,  which 
will  make 

My  kingship  kinglier  to  me  than  to 
reign 

King  of  the  world  without  it. 

Edith.  Ask  me  not, 

Lest  I should  yield  it,  and  the  second 
curse 

Descend  upon  thine  head,  and  thou 
be  only 

King  of  the  moment  over  England. 

Harold.  Edith, 

Tho’  somewhat  less  a king  to  my  true 
self 

Than  ere  they  crown’d  me  one,  for  I 
have  lost 

Somewhat  of  upright  stature  thro’ 
mine  oath, 

Yet  thee  I would  not  lose,  and  sell 
not  thou 

Our  living  passion  for  a dead  man’s 
dream ; 

Stigand  believed  he  knew  not  what  he 
spake. 

Oh  God ! I cannot  help  it,  but  at 
times 

They  seem  to  me  too  narrow,  all  the 
faiths 

Of  this  grown  world  of  ours,  whose 
baby  eye 

Saw  them  sufficient.  Fool  and  wise, 
I fear 

This  curse,  and  scorn  it.  But  a little 
light ! — 


HAROLD. 


629 


And  on  it  falls  the  shadow  of  the 
priest ; 

Heaven  yield  us  more ! for  better, 
Woden,  all 

Our  cancell’d  warrior-gods,  our  grim 
Walhalla, 

Eternal  war,  than  that  the  Saints  at 
peace 

The  Holiest  of  our  Holiest  one  should 
be 

This  William’s  fellow-tricksters ; — 
better  die 

Than  credit  this,  for  death  is  death, 
or  else 

Lifts  us  beyond  the  lie.  Kiss  me  — 
thou  art  not 

A holy  sister  yet,  my  girl,  to  fear 

There  might  be  more  than  brother  in 
my  kiss, 

And  more  than  sister  in  thine  own. 

Edith.  I dare  not. 

Harold.  Scared  by  the  church  — 
“ Love  for  a whole  life  long  ” 

When  was  that  sung  ? 

Edith.  Here  to  the  nightingales. 

Harold.  Their  anthems  of  no 
church,  how  sweet  they  are  ! 

Nor  kingly  priest,  nor  priestly  king  to 
cross 

Their  billings  ere  they  nest. 

Edith.  They  are  but  of  spring, 

They  fly  the  winter  change  — not  so 
with  us  — 

No  wings  to  come  and  go. 

Harold.  But  wing’d  souls  flying 

Beyond  all  change  and  in  the  eternal 
distance 

To  settle  on  the  Truth. 

Edith.  They  are  not  so  true, 

They  change  their  mates. 

Harold.  Do  they  ? I did  not  know  it. 

Edith.  They  say  thou  art  to  wed 
the  Lady  Aldwyth. 

Harold.  They  say,  they  say. 

Edith.  If  this  be  politic, 

And  well  for  thee  and  England  — ^nd 
for  her  — 

Care  not  for  me  who  love  thee. 

Gurth  (calling).  Harold,  Harold! 

Harold.  The  voice  of  Gurth  ! (Enter 
Glkth.)  Good  even,  my  good 
brother ! 


Gurth.  Good  even,  gentle  Edith. 

Edith.  Good  even,  Gurth. 

Gurth.  Ill  news  hath  come  ! Our 
hapless  brother,  Tostig  — 

He,  and  the  giant  King  of  Norway, 
Harold 

Hardrada  — Scotland,  Ireland,  Ice- 
land, Orkney, 

Are  landed  North  of  Humber,  and  in 
a field 

So  packt  with  carnage  that  the  dykes 
and  brooks 

Were  bridged  and  damm’d  with  dead, 
have  overthrown 

Morcar  and  Edwin. 

Harold.  Well  then,  we  must 

fight. 

How  blows  the  wind  1 

Gurth.  Against  St.  Valery 

And  William. 

Harold.  Well  then,  we  will  to  the 
North. 

Gurth.  Ay,  but  worse  news  : this 
William  sent  to  Rome, 

Swearing  thou  swarest  falsely  by  his 
Saints  : 

The  Pope  and  that  Archdeacon  Hilde- 
brand 

His  master,  heard  him,  and  have  sent 
him  back 

A holy  gonfanon,  and  a blessed  hair 

Of  Peter,  and  all  Prance,  all  Bur- 
gundy, 

Poitou,  all  Christendom  is  raised 
against  thee ; 

He  hath  cursed  thee,  and  all  those 
who  fight  for  thee, 

And  given  thy  realm  of  England  to 
the  bastard. 

Harold.  Ha  ! ha  ! 

Edith.  Oh!  laugh  not!  . . . Strange 
and  ghastly  in  the  gloom 

And  shadowing  of  this  double  thun- 
der-cloud 

That  lours  on  England  — laughter! 

Harold.  No,  not  strange  ! 

This  was  old  human  laughter  in  old 
Rome 

Before  a Pope  was  born,  when  that 
which  reign’d 

Call’d  itself  God.  — A kindly  render 
ing 


630 


HAROLD. 


Of  “ Render  unto  Caesar.”  . . . The 
Good  Shepherd  ! 

Take  this,  and  render  that. 

Gurth.  They  have  taken  York. 

Harold.  The  Lord  was  God  and 
came  as  man  — the  Pope 

Is  man  and  comes  as  God.  — York 
taken  ? 

Gurtli.  Yea,  Tostig  hath  taken 

York! 

Harold.  To  York  then.  Edith, 

Hadst  thou  been  braver,  I had  better 
braved 

All  — but  I love  thee  and  thou  me  — 
and  that 

Remains  beyond  all  chances  and  all 
churches, 

And  that  thou  knowest. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  take  back  thy  ring. 

It  burns  my  hand  — a curse  to  thee 
and  me. 

I dare  not  wear  it. 

[. Proffers  Harold  the  ring,  which  he  takes. 

Harold.  But  I dare.  God  with  thee! 

[Exeunt  Harold  and  Gurth. 

Edith.  The  King  hath  cursed  him, 
if  he  marry  me  ; 

The  Pope  hath  cursed  him,  marry  me 
or  no ! 

God  help  me  ! I know  nothing  — can 
but  pray 

Eor  Harold  — pray,  pray,  pray  — no 
help  but  prayer, 

A breath  that  fleets  beyond  this  iron 
world, 

And  touches  Him  that  made  it. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  — In  Northumbria. 

Archbishop  Aldred,  Morcar,  Ed- 
win, and  Forces.  Enter  Harold. 
The  standard  of  the  golden  Dragon 
of  Wessex  preceding  him. 

Harold.  What ! are  thy  people  sul- 
len from  defeat  1 

Our  Wessex  dragon  flies  beyond  the 
Humber, 

No  voice  to  greet  it. 

Edwin.  Let  not  our  great  king 


Believe  us  sullen  — only  shamed  to 
the  quick 

Before  the  king  — as  having  been  so 
bruised 

By  Harold,  king  of  Norway ; but  our 
help 

Is  Harold,  king  of  England.  Pardon 
us,  thou ! 

Our  silence  is  our  reverence  for  the 
king ! 

Harold.  Earl  of  the  Mercians ! if 
the  truth  be  gall, 

Cram  me  not  thou  with  honey,  when 
our  good  hive 

Needs  every  sting  to  save  it. 

Voices.  Aldwyth  ! Aldwyth  ! 

Harold.  Why  cry  thy  people  on  thy 
sister’s  name  ? 

Morcar.  She  hath  won  upon  our 
people  thro’  her  beauty, 

And  pleasantness  among  them. 

Voices.  Aldwyth,  Aldwyth ! 

Harold.  They  shout  as  they  would 
have  her  for  a queen. 

Morcar.  She  hath  followed  with  our 
host,  and  suffer’d  all. 

Harold.  What  would  ye,  men  ? 

Voice.  Our  old  Northumbrian 

crown, 

And  kings  of  our  own  choosing. 

Harold.  Your  old  crown 

Were  little  help  without  oui  Saxon 
carle 

Against  Hardrada. 

Voice.  Little  ! we  are  Danes 

Who  conquer’d  what  we  walk  on,  oui 
own  field. 

Harold.  They  have  been  plotting 
here ! [Aside. 

Voice.  He  calls  us  little  ! 

Harold.  The  kingdoms  of  this  world 
began  with  little, 

A hill,  a fort,  a city  — that  reach’d  a 
hand 

Down  to  the  field  beneath  it,  “ Be  thou 
mine,” 

Then  to  the  next,  “ Thou  also ! ” If 
the  field 

Cried  out  “ I am  mine  own ; ” another 
hill 

Or  fort,  or  city,  took  it,  and  the  first 

Fell,  and  the  next  became  an  Empire. 


HAROLD. 


631 


Voice.  Yet 

Thou  art  but  a West  Saxon : we  are 
Danes ! 

Harold.  My  mother  is  a Dane,  and 
I am  English ; 

There  is  a pleasant  fable  in  old  books, 
Ye  take  a stick,  and  break  it ; bind  a 
score 

All  in  one  faggot,  snap  it  over  knee, 
Ye  cannot. 

Voice.  Hear  King  Harold  ! he 

says  true  ! 

Harold.  Would  ye  be  Norsemen  ? 

Voices.  No! 

Harold.  Or  Norman  ? 

Voices.  No ! 

Harold.  Snap  not  the  faggot-band 
then. 

Voice.  That  is  true  ! 

Voice.  Ah,  but  thou  art  not  kingly, 
only  grandson 

To  Wulfnoth,  a poor  cow-herd. 

Harold.  This  old  Wulfnoth 

Would  take  me  on  his  knees  and  tell 
me  tales 

Of  Alfred  and  of  Athelstan  the  Great 
Who  drove  you  Danes;  and  yet  he 
held  that  Dane, 

Jute,  Angle,  Saxon,  were  or  should 
be  all 

One  England,  for  this  cow-herd,  like 
my  father, 

Who  shook  the  Norman  scoundrels 
off  the  throne, 

Had  in  him  kingly  thoughts  — a king 
of  men,  % 

Not  made  but  born,  like  the  great 
king  of  all, 

A light  among  the  oxen. 

Voice.  That  is  true ! 

Voice.  Ah,  and  I love  him  now,  for 
mine  own  father 
Was  great,  and  cobbled. 

Voice.  Thou  art  Tostig’s  brother, 
Who  wastes  the  land. 

Harold.  This  brother  comes  to  save 
Your  land  from  waste ; I saved  it 
once  before, 

For  when  your  people  banish’d  Tostig 
hence, 

And  Edward  would  have  sent  a host 
against  you, 


Then  I,  who  loved  my  brother,  bade 
the  king 

Who  doted  on  him,  sanction  your  de- 
cree 

Of  Tostig’s  banishment,  and  choice 
of  Morcar, 

To  help  the  realm  from  scattering. 

Voice.  King  ! thy  brother, 

If  one  may  dare  to  speak  the  truth, 
was  wrong’d. 

Wild  was  he,  born  so : but  the  plots 
against  him 

Had  madden’d  tamer  men. 

Morcar.  Thou  art  one  of  those 

Who  brake  into  Lord  Tostig’s  treas- 
ure-house 

And  slew  two  hundred  of  his  following, 

And  now,  when  Tostig  hath  come  back 
with  power, 

Are  frighted  back  to  Tostig. 

Old  Thane.  Ugh  ! Plots  and  feuds  ! 

This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday.  Can 
ye  not 

Be  brethren  ? Godwin  still  at  feud 
with  A If  gar, 

And  Alfgar  hates  King  Harold.  Plots 
and  feuds ! 

This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday  ! 

Harold.  Old  man,  Harold 

Hates  nothing;  not  his  fault,  if  our 
two  houses 

Be  less  than  brothers. 

Voices.  Aldwyth,  Harold,  Aldwyth ! 

Harold.  Again!  Morcar!  Edwin! 
What  do  they  mean  ? 

Edwin.  So  the  good  king  would 
deign  to  lend  an  ear 

Not  overscornful,  we  might  chance  — 
perchance  — 

To  guess  their  meaning. 

Morcar.  Thine  own  meaning,  Har- 
old, 

To  make  all  England  one,  to  close  all 
feuds, 

Mixing  our  bloods,  that  thence  a king 
may  rise 

Half-Godwin  and  half-Alfgar,  one  to 
rule 

All  England  beyond  question,  beyond 
quarrel. 

Harold.  Who  sow’d  this  fancy  here 
among  the  people  i 


632 


HAROLD. 


Morcar.  Who  knows  what  sows 
itself  among  the  people  ? 

A goodly  flower  at  times. 

Harold.  The  Queen  of  Wales  ? 

Why,  Morcar,  it  is  all  but  duty  in 
her 

To  hate  me ; I have  heard  she  hates 
me. 

Morcar.  No ! 

For  I can  swear  to  that,  but  cannot 
swear 

That  these  will  follow  thee  against 
the  Norsemen, 

If  thou  deny  them  this. 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin, 

When  will  ye  cease  to  plot  against 
my  house  ? 

Edwin.  The  king  can  scarcely 
dream  that  we,  who  know 

His  prowess  in  the  mountains  of  the 
West, 

Should  care  to  plot  against  him  in 
the  North. 

Morcar.  Who  dares  arraign  us, 
king,  of  such  a plot  ? 

Harold.  Ye  heard  one  witness  even 
now. 

Morcar.  The  craven  ! 

There  is  a faction  risen  again  for 
Tostig, 

Since  Tostig  came  with  Norway  — 
fright  not  love. 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye, 
if  I yield, 

Follow  against  the  Norseman  ? 

Morcar.  Surely,  surely ! 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye 
upon  oath, 

Help  us  against  the  Norman  ? 

Morcar.  With  good  will ; 

Yea,  take  the  Sacrament  upon  it,  king. 

Harold.  Where  is  thy  sister  1 

Morcar.  Somewhere  hard  at  hand. 

Call  and  she  comes. 

[ One  goes  out , then  enter  Aldwy  th. 

Harold.  Idoubt  not  but  thou  knowest 

Why  thou  art  summon’d. 

Aldwyth.  Why  ? — I stay  with  these, 

Lest  thy  fierce  Tostig  spy  me  out 
alone, 

And  flay  me  all  alive. 

Harold.  Canst  thou  love  one 


Who  did  discrown  thine  husband,  un- 
queen thee  ? 

Didst  thou  not  love  thine  husband  ? 

Aldwyth.  Oh ! my  lord, 

The  nimble,  wild,  red,  wiry,  savage 
king  — 

That  was,  my  lord,  a match  of  policy. 

Harold.  Was  it? 

I knew  him  brave : he  loved  his  land : 
he  fain 

Had  made  her  great : his  finger  on  her 
harp 

(I  heard  him  more  than  once)  had  in 
it  Wales, 

Her  floods,  her  woods,  her  hills : had 
I been  his, 

I had  been  all  Welsh. 

Aldwyth.  Oh,  ay  — all  Welsh  — 
and  yet 

I saw  thee  drive  him  up  his  hills  — 
and  women 

Cling  to  the  conquer’d,  if  they  love, 
the  more ; 

If  not,  they  cannot  hate  the  conqueror. 

We  never — oh!  good  Morcar,  speak 
for  us, 

His  conqueror  conquer’d  Aldwyth. 

Harold.  Goodly  news ! 

Morcar.  Doubt  it  not  thou  ! Since 
Griffyth’s  head  was  sent 

To  Edward,  she  hath  said  it. 

Harold.  I had  rather 

She  would  have  loved  her  husband. 
Aldwyth,  Aldwyth, 

Canst  thou  love  me,  thou  knowing 
where  I love#? 

Aldwyth.  I can,  my  lord,  for  mine 
own  sake,  for  thine, 

For  England,  for  thy  poor  white  dove, 
who  flutters 

Between  thee  and  the  porch,  but  then 
would  find 

Her  nest  within  the  cloister,  and  be 
still. 

Harold.  Canst  thou  love  one,  who 
cannot  love  again  ? 

Aldwyth.  Full  hope  have  I that  love 
will  answer  love. 

Harold.  Then  in  the  name  of  the 
great  God,  so  be  it ! 

Come,  Aldred,  join  our  hands  before 
the  hosts, 


HAROLD. 


633 


That  all  may  see. 

[Aldred  joins  the  hands  of  Harold 
and  Aldwytli  and  blesses  them. 

Voices.  Harold,  Harold  and  Ald- 
wytli ! 

Harold.  Set  forth  our  golden  Dra- 
gon, let  him  flap 

The  wings  that  beat  down  Wales! 
Advance  our  Standard  of  the  Warrior, 
Dark  among  gems  and  gold ; and 
thou,  brave  banner, 

Blaze  like  a night  of  fatal  stars  on 
those 

Who  read  their  doom  and  die. 

Where  lie  the  Norsemen  ? on  the 
Derwent  ? ay 
At  Stamford-bridge. 

Morcar,  collect  thy  men ; Edwin,  my 
friend  — 

Thou  lingerest.  — Gurth,  — 

Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me 
in  dreams  — 

The  rosy  face  and  long  down-silvering 
beard  — 

He  told  me  I should  conquer : — 

I am  no  woman  to  put  faith  in  dreams. 

(To  his  army.) 

Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me 
in  dreams, 

And  told  me  we  should  conquer. 

Voices.  Forward  ! Forward ! 

Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 

Aldwyth.  The  day  is  won ! 

SCENE  II.  — A Plain.  Before  the 

Battle  of  Stamford-Bridge. 

Harold  and  his  Guard. 

Harold.  Who  is  it  comes  this  way  ? 
Tostig  1 (Enter  Tostig  with  a 
small  force.)  0 brother, 

What  art  thou  doing  here  ? 

Tostig.  I am  foraging 

For  Norway’s  army. 

Harold.  I could  take  and  slay  thee. 
Thou  art  in  arms  against  us. 

Tostig.  Take  and  slay  me, 

For  Edward  loved  me. 

Harold.  Edward  bade  me  spare 
thee. 

Tostig.  I hate  King  Edward,  for  he 
join’d  with  thee 


To  drive  me  outlaw’d.  Take  and  slay 
me,  I say, 

Or  I shall  count  thee  fool. 

Harold.  Take  thee,  or  free  thee, 

Free  thee  or  slay  thee,  Norway  will 
have  war ; 

No  man  would  strike  with  Tostig,  save 
for  Norway. 

Thou  art  nothing  in  thine  England, 
save  for  Norway, 

Who  loves  not  thee  but  war.  What 
dost  thou  here, 

Trampling  thy  mother’s  bosom  into 
blood  ? 

Tostig.  She  hath  wean’d  me  from 
it  with  such  bitterness. 

I come  for  mine  own  Earldom,  my 
Northumbria ; 

Thou  hast  given  it  to  the  enemy  of 
our  house. 

Harold.  Northumbria  threw  thee 
off,  she  will  not  have  thee, 

Thou  hast  misused  her : and,  0 crown- 
ing crime ! 

Hast  murder’d  thine  own  guest,  the 
son  of  Orm, 

Gamel,  at  thine  own  hearth. 

Tostig.  The  slow,  fat  fool ! 

He  drawl’d  and  prated  so,  I smote 
him  suddenly, 

I knew  not  what  I did.  He  held  with 
Morcar.  — 

I hate  myself  for  all  things  that  I 
do. 

Harold.  And  Morcar  holds  with 
us.  Come  back  with  him. 

Know  what  thou  dost;  and  we  may 
find  for  thee, 

So  thou  be  chasten’d  by  thy  banish- 
ment, 

Some  easier  earldom. 

Tostig.  What  for  Norway  then  1 

He  looks  for  land  among  us,  he  and 
his. 

Harold.  Seven  feet  of  English  land, 
or  something  more, 

Seeing  he  is  a giant. 

Tostig.  That  is  noble  ! 

That  sounds  of  Godwin. 

Harold.  Come  thou  back,  and 
be 

Once  more  a son  of  Godwin. 


634 


HAROLD. 


Tostig  ( turns  away).  O brother, 
brother, 

0 Harold  — - 

Harold  ( laying  his  hand  on  Tostig’s 
shoulder ).  Nay  then,  come  thou 
back  to  us  ! 

Tostig  ( after  a pause  turning  to  him). 
Never  shall  any  man  say  that  I, 
that  Tostig 

Conjured  the  mightier  Harold  from 
his  North 

To  do  the  battle  for  me  here  in  Eng- 
land, 

Then  left  him  for  the  meaner ! 
thee ! — 

Thou  hast  no  passion  for  the  House 
of  Godwin  — 

Thou  hast  but  cared  to  make  thyself 
a king  — 

Thou  hast  sold  me  for  a cry. — 

Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in 
the  Council  — 

1 hate  thee,  and  despise  thee,  and  defy 

thee. 

Farewell  for  ever!  [Exit. 

Harold.  On  to  Stamford-bridge  ! 


SCENE  III. 

After  the  Battle  of  Stamford- 
Bridge.  Banquet. 

Harold  and  Aldwyth.  Gurth, 
Leofwin,  Morcar,  Edwin,  and 
other  Earls  and  Thanes. 

Voices.  Hail ! Harold  ! Aldwyth ! 

hail,  bridegroom  and  bride  ! 
Aldwyth  ( talking  with  Harold).  An- 
swer them  thou  ! 

Is  this  our  marriage-banquet  ? Would 
the  wines 

Of  wedding  had  been  dash’d  into  the 
cups 

Of  victory,  and  our  marriage  and  thy 
glory 

Been  drunk  together ! these  poor 
hands  but  sew, 

Spin,  broider  — would  that  they  were 
man’s  to  have  held 

The  battle-axe  by  thee  ! 


Harold.  There  was  a moment 

When  being  forced  aloof  from  all  my 
guard, 

And  striking  at  Hardrada  and  his 
madmen 

I had  wish’d  for  any  weapon. 

Aldwyth.  Why  art  thou  sad  ? 

Harold.  I have  lost  the  boy  who 
play’d  at  ball  with  me, 

With  whom  I fought  another  fight 
than  this 

Of  Stamford-bridge. 

Aldwyth.  Ay ! ay  ! thy  victories 

Over  our  own  poor  Wales,  when  at 
thy  side 

He  conquer’d  with  thee. 

Harold.  No  — the  childish  fist 

That  cannot  strike  again. 

Aldwyth.  Thou  art  too  kindly. 

Why  didst  thou  let  so  many  Norse- 
men hence  ? 

Thy  fierce  forekings  had  clench’d 
their  pirate  hides 

To  the  bleak  church  doors,  like  kites 
upon  a barn. 

Harold.  Is  there  so  great  a need  to 
tell  thee  why  ? 

Aldwyth.  Yea,  am  I not  thy  wife  ? 

Voices.  Hail,  Harold,  Aldwyth ! 

Bridegroom  and  bride ! 

Aldwyth.  Answer  them ! 

[To  Harold. 

Harold  (to  all).  Earls  and  Thanes  ! 

Full  thanks  for  your  fair  greeting  of 
my  bride  ! 

Earls,  Thanes,  and  all  our  country- 
men ! the  day, 

Our  day  beside  the  Derwent  will  not 
shine 

Less  than  a star  among  the  goldenest 
hours 

Of  Alfred,  or  of  Edward  his  great 
son, 

Or  Athelstan,  or  English  Ironside 

Who  fought  with  Knut,  or  Knut  who 
coming  Dane 

Died  English.  Every  man  about  his 
king 

Fought  like  a king ; the  king  like  his 
own  man, 

No  better ; one  for  all,  and  all  for 
one, 


HAROLD. 


635 


One  soul ! and  therefore  have  we  shat- 
ter’d back 

The  hugest  wave  from  Norseland  ever 
yet 

Surged  on  us,  and  our  battle-axes 
broken 

The  Raven’s  wing,  and  dumb’d  his 
carrion  croak 

From  the  gray  sea  for  ever.  Many 
are  gone  — 

Drink  to  the  dead  who  died  for  us,  the 
living 

Who  fought  and  would  have  died,  but 
happier  lived, 

If  happier  be  to  live ; they  both  have 
life  * 

In  the  large  mouth  of  England,  till 
her  voice 

Die  with  the  world.  Hail  — hail ! 

Morcar.  May  all  invaders  perish 
like  Hardrada  ! 

All  traitors  fail  like  Tostig  ! 

[All  drink  but  Harold. 

Aldwyth.  Thy  cup’s  full ! 

Harold.  I saw  the  hand  of  Tostig 
cover  it. 

Our  dear,  dead,  traitor-brother,  Tostig, 
him 

Reverently  we  buried.  Friends,  had 
I been  here, 

Without  too  large  self-lauding  I must 
hold 

The  sequel  had  been  other  than  his 
league 

With  Norway,  and  this  battle.  Peace 
be  with  him  ! 

He  was  not  of  the  worst.  If  there  be 
those 

At  banquet  in  this  hall,  and  hearing 
me  — 

For  there  be  those  I fear  who  prick’d 
the  lion 

To  make  him  spring,  that  sight  of 
Danish  blood 

Might  serve  an  end  not  English  — 
peace  with  them 

Likewise,  if  then  can  be  at  peace  with 
what 

God  gave  us  to  divide  us  from  the  wolf ! 

Aldwyth  ( aside  to  Harold).  Make 
not  our  Morcar  sullen  : it  is  not 
wise. 


Harold.  Hail  to  the  living  who 
fought,  the  dead  who  fell ! 

Voices.  Hail,  hail ! 

First  Thane.  How  ran  that  answer 
which  King  Harold  gave 

To  his  dead  namesake,  when  he  ask’d 
for  England  ? 

Leo/win.  “ Seven  feet  of  English 
earth,  or  something  more, 

Seeing  he  is  a giant ! ” 

First  Thane.  Then  for  the  bastard 

Six  feet  and  nothing  more  ! 

Leofwin.  Ay,  but  belike 

Thou  hast  not  learnt  his  measure. 

First  Thane.  By  St.  Edmund 

I over-measure  him.  Sound  sleep  to 
the  man 

Here  by  dead  Norway  without  dream 
or  dawn  ! 

Second  Thane.  What  is  he  brag- 
ging still  that  he  will  come 

To  thrust  our  Harold’s  throne  from 
under  him  ? 

My  nurse  would  tell  me  of  a molehill 
crying 

To  a mountain  “ Stand  aside  and  room 
for  me ! ” 

First  Thane.  Let  him  come ! let  him 
come.  Here’s  to  him,  sink  or 
swim ! [Drinks. 

Second  Thane.  God  sink  him  ! 

First  Thane.  Cannot  hands  which 
had  the  strength 

To  shove  that  stranded  iceberg  off 
our  shores, 

And  send  the  shatter’d  North  again 
to  sea. 

Scuttle  his  cockle-shell  ? What’s 
Brunanburg 

To  Stamford-bridge  ? a war-crash,  and 
so  hard, 

So  loud,  that,  by  St.  Dunstan,  old  St. 
Thor  — 

By  God,  we  thought  him  dead  — but 
our  old  Thor 

Heard  his  own  thunder  again,  and 
woke  and  came 

Among  us  again,  and  mark’d  the  sons 
of  those 

Who  made  this  Britain  England, 
break  the  North  : 


636 


HAROLD . 


Mark’d  how  the  war-axe  swang, 

Heard  how  the  war-horn  sang, 

Mark’d  how  the  spear-head  sprang, 

Heard  how  the  shield-wall  rang, 

Iron  on  iron  clang, 

Anvil  on  hammer  bang  — 

Second  Thane.  Hammer  on  anvil, 
hammer  on  anvil.  Old  dog, 

Thou  art  drunk,  old  dog ! 

First  Thane.  Too  drunk  to  fight 
with  thee ! 

Second  Thane.  Fight  thou  with 
thine  own  double,  not  with  me, 

Keep  that  for  Norman  William  ! 

First  Thane.  Down  with  William ! 

Third  Thane.  The  washerwoman’s 
brat! 

Fourth  Thane.  The  tanner’s  bas- 
tard ! 

Fifth  Thane.  The  Falaise  byblow ! 

[Enter  a Thane  from  Pevensey, 
spatter'd  with  mud. 

Harold.  Ay,  but  what  late  guest, 

As  haggard  as  a fast  of  forty  days, 

And  caked  and  plaster’d  with  a hun- 
dred mires, 

Path  stumbled  on  our  cups  ? 

Thane  from  Pevensey.  My  lord  the 
King ! 

William  the  Norman,  for  the  wind  had 
changed  — 

Harold.  I felt  it  in  the  middle  of 
that  fierce  fight 

At  Stamford-bridge.  William  hath 
landed,  ha  ? 

Thane  from  Pevensey.  Landed  at 
Pevensey  — I am  from  Peven- 
sey— 

Hath  wasted  all  the  land  at  Peven- 
sey— 

Hath  harried  mine  own  cattle  — God 
confound  him ! 

I have  ridden  night  and  day  from 
Pevensey  — 

A thousand  ships  — a hundred  thou- 
sand men  — 

Thousands  of  horses,  like  as  many 
lions 

Neighing  and  roaring  as  they  leapt  to 
land  — 


Harold.  How  oft  in  coming  hast 
thou  broken  bread  ? 

Thane  from  Pevensey.  Some  thrice, 
or  so. 

Harold.  Bring  not  thy  hollowness 

On  our  full  feast.  Famine  is  fear, 
were  it  but 

Of  being  starved.  Sit  down,  sit  down, 
and  eat, 

And,  when  again  red-blooded,  speak 
again ; 

(Aside.)  The  men  that  guarded 
England  to  the  South 

Were  scatter’d  to  the  harvest.  . . . 
No  power  mine 

To  hold  their  force  together.  . . . 
Many  are  fallen 

At  Stamford-bridge  . . . the  people 
stupid-sure 

Sleep  like  their  swine  ...  in  South 
and  North  at  once 

I could  not  be. 

(Aloud.)  Gurth,  Leofwin,  Morcar, 
Edwin ! 

(Pointing  to  the  revellers.)  The  curse 
of  England ! these  are  drown’d 
in  wassail, 

And  cannot  see  the  world  but  thro’ 
their  wines  ! 

Leave  them  ! and  thee  too,  Aldwyth, 
must  I leave — ; 

Harsh  is  the  news  ! hard  is  our  honey, 
moon ! 

Thy  pardon.  ( Turning  round  to  his 
attendants.)  Break  the  banquet 
up  . . . Ye  four ! 

And  thou,  my  carrier-pigeon  of  black 
news, 

Cram  thy  crop  full,  but  come  when 
thou  art  call’d.  [Exit  Harold. 

ACT  Y. 

SCENE  I. — A Tent  on  a Mound, 

FROM  WHICH  CAN  BE  SEEN  THE 

Field  of  Senlac. 

Harold,  sitting ; by  him  standing  Hugh 

Margot  the  Monk,  Gurth,  Leof- 
win. 

Harold.  Refer  my  cause,  my  crown 
to  Rome ! . . . The  wolf 


HAROLD. 


637 


Mudded  the  brook  and  predetermined 
all. 

Monk, 

Thou  hast  said  thy  say,  and  had  my 
constant  “ No  ” 

For  all  but  instant  battle.  I hear  no 
more. 

Margot.  Hear  me  again  — for  the 
last  time.  Arise, 

Scatter  thy  people  home,  descend  the 
hill, 

Lay  hands  of  full  allegiance  in  thy 
Lord’s 

And  crave  his  mercy,  for  the  Holy 
Father 

Hath  given  this  realm  of  England  to 
the  Norman. 

Harold.  Then  for  the  last  time, 
monk,  I ask  again 

When  had  the  Lateran  and  the  Holy 
Father 

To  do  with  England’s  choice  of  her 
own  king  ? 

Margot.  Earl,  the  first  Christian 
Caesar  drew  to  the  East 

To  leave  the  Pope  dominion  in  the 
West. 

He  gave  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 
West. 

Harold.  So  ! — did  he  ? — Earl  — I 
have  a mind  to  play 

The  William  with  thine  eyesight  and 
thy  tongue. 

Earl — ay — thou  art  but  but  a messen- 
ger of  William. 

I am  weary  — go  : make  me  not  wroth 
with  thee ! 

Margot.  Mock-king,  I am  the  mes- 
senger of  God, 

His  Norman  Daniel ! Mene,  Mene, 
Tekel ! 

Is  thy  wrath  Hell,  that  I should  spare 
to  cry, 

Yon  heaven  is  wroth  with  thee  ? Hear 
me  again ! 

Our  Saints  have  moved  the  Church 
that  moves  the  world, 

And  all  the  Heavens  and  very  God : 
they  heard  — 

They  know  King  Edward’s  promise 
and  thine  — thine. 


Harold.  Should  they  not  know  free 
England  crowns  herself  ? 

Not  know  that  he  nor  I had  power  to 
promise  1 

Not  know  that  Edward  cancell’d  his 
own  promise  1 

And  for  my  part  therein  — Back  to 
that  juggler,  [ Rising . 

Tell  him  the  Saints  are  nobler  than  he 
dreams, 

Tell  him  that  God  is  nobler  than  the 
Saints, 

And  tell  him  we  stand  arm ’don  Senlac 
Hill, 

And  bide  the  doom  of  God. 

Margot.  Hear  it  thro’  me. 

The  realm  for  which  thou  art  forsworn 
is  cursed, 

The  babe  enwomb’d  and  at  the  breast 
is  cursed, 

The  corpse  thou  whelmest  with  thine 
earth  is  cursed, 

The  soul  who  fighteth  on  thy  side  is 
cursed, 

The  seed  thou  sowest  in  thy  field  is 
cursed, 

The  steer  wherewith  thou  plowest  thy 
field  is  cursed. 

The  fowl  that  fleeth  o’er  thy  field  is 
cursed, 

And  thou,  usurper,  liar  — 

Harold.  Out,  beast  monk  ! 

[. Lifting  liis  hand  to  strike  him. 

Gurth  stops  the  blow. 

I ever  hated  monks. 

Margot.  Iam  but  a voice 

Among  you : murder,  martyr  me  if  ye 
will  — 

Harold.  Thanks,  Gurth  ! The 
simple,  silent,  selfless  man 

Is  worth  a world  of  tonguesters.  ( To 
Margot.)  Get  thee  gone  ! 

He  means  the  thing  he  says.  See  him 
out  safe ! 

Leofwin.  He  hath  blown  himself  as 
red  as  fire  with  curses. 

Anhonestfool!  Followme, honest  fool, 

But  if  thou  blurt  thy  curse  among  our 
folk, 

I know  not  — I may  give  that  egg- 
bald  head 

The  tap  that  silences. 


638 


HAROLD . 


Harold.  See  him  out  safe. 

[. Exeunt  Leofwin  and  Margot. 

Gurth.  Thou  hast  lost  thine  even 
temper,  brother  Harold! 

Harold.  Gurth,  when  I past  by 
Waltham,  my  foundation 

For  men  who  serve  the  neighbor,  not 
themselves, 

I cast  me  down  prone,  praying ; and, 
when  I rose, 

They  told  me  that  the  Holy  Rood  had 
lean’d 

And  bow’d  above  me;  whether  that 
which  held  it 

Had  weaken’d,  and  the  Rood  itself 
were  bound 

To  that  necessity  which  binds  us  down; 

Whether  it  bow’d  at  all  but  in  their 
fancy ; 

Or  if  it  bow’d,  whether  it  symbol’d  ruin 

Or  glory,  who  shall  tell  ? but  they 
were  sad, 

And  somewhat  sadden’d  me. 

Gurth.  Yet  if  a fear, 

Or  shadow  of  a fear,  lest  the  strange 
Saints 

By  whom  thou  swarest,  should  have 
power  to  balk 

Thy  puissance  in  this  fight  with  him, 
who  made 

And  heard  thee  swear  — brother  — I 
have  not  sworn  — 

If  the  king  fall,  may  not  the  kingdom 
fall? 

But  if  I fall,  I fall,  and  thou  art  king ; 

And,  if  I win,  I win,  and  thou  art  king ; 

Draw  thou  to  London,  there  make 
strength  to  breast 

Whatever  chance,  but  leave  this  day 
to  me. 

Leofwin  {entering).  And  waste  the 
land  about  thee  as  thou  goest, 

And  be  thy  hand  as  winter  on  the  field, 

To  leave  the  foe  no  forage. 

Harold.  Noble  Gurth ! 

Best  son  of  Godwin  ! If  I fall,  I fall  — 

The  doom  of  God  ! How  should  the 
people  fight 

When  the  king  flies  1 And,  Leofwin, 
art  thou  mad  'i 

How  should  the  King  of  England 
waste  the  fields 


Of  England,  his  own  people  ? — No 
glance  yet 

Of  the  Northumbrian  helmet  on  the 
heath  ? 

Leofwin.  No,  but  a shoal  of  wives 
upon  the  heath, 

And  someone  saw  thy  willy-nilly  nun 

Vying  a tress  against  our  golden 
fern. 

Harold.  Vying  a tear  with  our  cold 
dews,  a sigh 

With  these  low-moaning  heavens. 
Let  her  be  fetch’d. 

We  have  parted  from  our  wife  without 
reproach, 

Tho’  we  have  dived  thro’  all  her  prac- 
tices ; 

And  that  is  well. 

Leofwin.  I saw  her  even  now  : 

She  hath  not  left  us. 

Harold.  Nought  of  Morcar  then  ? 

Gurth.  Nor  seen,  nor  heard  ; thine, 
William’s  or  his  own 

As  wind  blows,  or  tide  flows : belike 
he  watches, 

If  this  war-storm  in  one  of  its  rough 
i’olls 

Wash  up  that  old  crown  of  Northum- 
berland. 

Harold.  I had  married  her  for 
Morcar  — a sin  against 

The  truth  of  love.  Evil  for  good,  it 
seems, 

Is  oft  as  childless  of  the  good  as  evil 

For  evil. 

Leofwin.  Good  for  good  hath  borne 
at  times 

A bastard  false  as  William. 

Harold.  Ay,  if  Wisdom 

Pair’d  not  with  Good.  But  I am 
somewhat  worn, 

A snatch  of  sleep  were  like  the  peace 
of  God. 

Gurth,  Leofwin,  go  once  more  about 
the  hill  — 

What  did  the  dead  man  call  it  — San- 
guelac, 

The  lake  of  blood  ? 

Leofwin.  A lake  that  dips  in  Wil- 
liam 

As  well  as  Harold. 

Harold.  Like  enough.  I have  seen 


HAROLD . 


639 


The  trenches  dug,  the  palisades  up- 
rear’d 

And  wattled  thick  with  ash  and  wil- 
low-wands ; 

Yea,  wrought  at  them  myself.  Go 
round  once  more  ; 

See  all  be  sound  and  whole.  No  Nor- 
man horse 

Can  shatter  England,  standing  shield 
by  shield ; 

Tell  that  again  to  all. 

Gurth.  I will,  good  brother. 

Harold.  Our  guardsman  hath  but 
toil’d  his  hand  and  foot, 

I hand,  foot,  heart  and  head.  Some 
wine  ! ( One  pours  wine  into  a 

goblet  which  he  hands  to  Harold.) 

Too  much ! 

What  ? we  must  use  our  battle-axe 
to-day. 

Our  guardsmen  have  slept  well,  since 
we  came  in  t 

Leo/win.  Ay,  slept  and  snored. 
Your  second-sighted  man 

That  scared  the  dying  conscience  of 
the  king, 

Misheard  their  snores  for  groans. 
They  are  up  again 

And  chanting  that  old  song  of  Brunan- 
burg 

Where  England  conquer’d. 

Harold.  That  is  well.  The  Norman, 

What  is  he  doing  ? 

Leofwin.  Praying  for  Normandy  ; 

Our  scouts  have  heard  the  tinkle  of 
their  bells. 

Harold.  And  our  old  songs  are 
prayers  for  England  too  ! 

But  by  all  Saints  — 

Leofwin.  Barring  the  Norman ! 

Harold.  Nay, 

Were  the  great  trumpet  blowing 
doomsday  dawn, 

I needs  must  rest.  Call  when  the 
Norman  moves  — 

[Exeunt  all  but  Harold. 

No  horse  — thousand  of  horses  — our 
shield  wall  — 

Wall  — break  it  not  — break  not  — 
break — [ Sleeps . 

Vision  of  Edward.  Son  Harold,  I 
thy  king,  who  came  before 


To  tell  thee  thou  shouldst  win  at 
Stamford-bridge, 

Come  yet  once  more,  from  where  I am 
at  peace, 

Because  I loved  thee  in  my  mortal 
day, 

To  tell  thee  thou  shaft  die  on  Senlac 
hill  — 

Sanguelac  ! 

Vision  of  Wulfnoth.  O brother,  from 
my  ghastly  oubliette 
I send  my  voice  across  the  narrow 
seas  — 

No  more,  no  more,  dear  brother, 
nevermore  — 

Sanguelac ! 

Vision  of  Tostig.  O brother,  most 
unbrotherlike  to  me, 

Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in 
my  life, 

I give  my  voice  against  thee  from  the 
grave  — 

Sanguelac  ! 

Vision  of  Norman  Saints.  O hapless 
Harold  ! King  but  for  an  hour! 
Thou  swarest  falsely  by  our  blessed 
bones, 

We  give  our  voice  against  thee  out  of 
heaven  ! 

Sanguelac  ! Sanguelac ! The  arrow ! 
the  arrow! 

Harold  ( starting  up,  battle-axe  in 
hand).  Away! 

My  battle-axe  against  your  voices. 
Peace ! 

The  king’s  last  word  — “ the  arrow ! ” 
I shall  die  — 

I die  for  England  then,  who  lived  for 
England  — 

What  nobler  1 men  must  die. 

I cannot  fall  into  a falser  world  — 

I have  done  no  man  wrong.  Tostig, 
poor  brother, 

Art  thou  so  anger’d  ? 

Fain  had  I kept  thine  earldom  in  thy 
hands 

Save  for  thy  wild  and  violent  will 
that  wrench’d 

All  hearts  of  freemen  from  thee.  I 
could  do 

No  other  than  this  way  advise  the 
king 


640 


HAROLD. 


Against  the  race  of  Godwin.  Is  it 
possible 

That  mortal  men  should  bear  their 
earthly  heats 

Into  yon  bloodless  world,  and  threaten 
us  thence 

Unschoohd  of  Death  ? Thus  then 
thou  art  revenged  — 

I left  our  England  naked  to  the  South 

To  meet  thee  in  the  North.  The 
Norseman’s  raid 

Hath  helpt  the  Norman,  and  the  race 
of  Godwin 

Hath  ruin’d  Godwin.  No  — our  wak- 
ing thoughts 

Suffer  a stormless  shipwreck  in  the 
pools 

Of  sullen  slumber,  and  arise  again 

Disjointed  : only  dreams  — wdiere 

mine  own  self 

Takes  part  against  myself ! Why  ? 
for  a spark 

Of  self-disdain  born  in  me  when  I 
sware 

Falsely  to  him,  the  falser  Norman, 
over 

His  gilded  ark  of  mummy-saints,  by 
whom 

I knew’  not  that  I sware,  — not  for  my- 
self— 

For  England  — yet  not  wholly  — 

(Enter  Edith.) 

Edith,  Edith, 

Get  thou  into  thy  cloister  as  the  king 

Will’d  it:  be  safe:  the  perjury -mon- 
gering  Count 

Hath  made  too  good  an  use  of  Holy 
Church 

To  break  her  close ! There  the  great 
God  of  truth 

Fill  all  thine  hours  with  peace!  — A 
lying  devil 

Hath  haunted  me — mine  oath  — my 
wife  — I fain 

Had  made  my  marriage  not  a lie ; I 
could  not : 

Thou  art  my  bride  ! and  thou  in  after 
years 

Praying  perchance  for  this  poor  soul 
of  mine 


In  cold,  white  cells  beneath  an  icy 
moon  — 

This  memory  to  thee  ! — and  this  to 
England, 

My  legacy  of  war  against  the  Pope 

From  child  to  child,  from  Pope  to 
Pope,  from  age  to  age, 

Till  the  sea  wash  her  level  with  her 
shores. 

Or  till  the  Pope  be  Christ’s. 

Enter  Aldwyth. 

Aldivyth  (to  Edith).  Away  from 
him  ! 

Edith.  I will  ...  I have  not  spoken 
to  the  king 

One  word ; and  one  I must.  Farewell ! 

[Going. 

Harold.  Not  yet. 

Stay. 

Edith.  To  what  use  ? 

Harold.  The  king  commands  thee, 
woman ! 

(To  Aldwyth.) 

Have  thy  two  brethren  sent  their  forces 
in  ? 

Aldwyth.  Nay,  I fear  not. 

Harold.  Then  there’s  no  force  in 
thee  ! 

Thou  didst  possess  thyself  of  Edward’s 
ear 

To  part  me  from  the  woman  that  I 
loved ! 

Thou  didst  arouse  the  fierce  Northum- 
brians ! 

Thou  hast  been  false  to  England  and 
to  me  ! — 

As  ...  in  some  sort  ...  I have  been 
false  to  thee. 

Leave  me.  No  more — Pardon  on  both 
sides  — go  ! 

Aldwyth.  Alas,  my  lord,  I loved  thee ! 

Harold  (bitterly).  With  a love 

Passing  thy  love  for  Griffyth ! where- 
fore now 

Obey  my  first  and  last  commandment. 
Go! 

Aldwyth.  O Harold!  husband!  Shall 
we  meet  again  ? 

Harold.  After  the  battle  — after 
the  battle.  Go. 


HAROLD. 


641 


Aldwyth.  I go.  (Aside.)  That  I 
could  stab  her  standing  there  ! 

[Exit  Aldwyth. 

Edith.  Alas,  my  lord,  she  loved  thee. 

Harold.  Never ! never ! 

Edith.  I saw  it  in  her  eyes  ! 

Harold.  I see  it  in  thine. 

And  not  on  thee  — nor  England  — fall 
God’s  doom  ! 

Edith.  On  thee  ? on  me.  And  thou 
art  England  ! Alfred 

Was  England.  Ethelred  was  nothing. 
England 

Is  but  her  king,  and  thou  art  Harold ! 

Harold.  Edith, 

The  sign  in  heaven  — the  sudden  blast 
at  sea  — 

My  fatal  oath — the  dead  Saints  — the 
dark  dreams  — 

The  Pope’s  Anathema  — the  Holy 
Rood 

That  bow’d  to  me  at  Waltham — Edith, 
if 

I,  the  last  English  king  of  England  — 

Edith.  No, 

First  of  a line  that  coming  from  the 
people, 

And  chosen  by  the  people  — 

Harold.  And  fighting  for 

And  dying  for  the  people  — 

Edith.  Living  ! living  ! 

Harold.  Yea  so,  good  cheer  ! thou 
art  Harold,  I am  Edith  ! 

Look  not  thus  wan  ! 

Edith.  What  matters  how  I look  ? 

Have  we  not  broken  Wales  and  Norse- 
land  ? slain, 

Whose  life  was  all  one  battle,  incar- 
nate war, 

Their  giant-king,  a mightier  man-in- 
arms 

Than  William. 

Harold.  Ay,  my  girl,  no  tricks  in 
him  — 

No  bastard  he ! when  all  was  lost,  he 
yell’d, 

And  bit  his  shield,  and  dash’d  it  on  the 
ground, 

And  swaying  his  two-handed  sword 
about  him, 

Two  deaths  at  every  swing,  ran  in  upon 
us 


And  died  so,  and  I loved  him  as  I hate 

This  liar  who  made  me  liar.  If  Hate 
can  kill, 

And  Loathing  wield  a Saxon  battle- 
axe  — 

Edith.  Waste  not  thy  might  before 
the  battle  ! 

Harold.  No, 

And  thou  must  hence.  Stigand  will 
see  thee  safe, 

And  so  — Farewell. 

[He  is  going,  hut  turns  hack. 
The  ring  thou  darest  not  wear, 

I have  had  it  fashion’d,  see,  to  meet 
my  hand. 

[Harold  shows  the  ring  which  is  on 
his  finger. 

Farewell ! 

[He  is  going,  hut  turns  hack  again. 

I am  as  dead  as  Death  this  day  to  ought 
of  earth’s 

Save  William’s  death  or  mine. 

Edith.  Thy  death  ! — to-day  ! 

Is  it  not  thy  birthday  ? 

Harold.  Ay,  that  happy  day  ! 

A birthday  welcome  ! happy  days  and 
many  ! 

One  — this  ! [They  embrace. 

Look,  I will  bear  thy  blessing  into  the 
battle 

And  front  the  doom  of  God. 

Norman  cries  (heard  in  the  distance). 
Ha  Rou  ! Ha  Rou  ! 

Enter  Gurth. 

Gurth.  The  Norman  moves  ! 

Harold.  Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 

[Exeunt  Harold  and  Gurth. 

Enter  Stigand. 

Stigand.  Our  Church  in  arms  — the 
lamb  the  lion  — not 

Spear  into  pruning-hook  — the  counter 
way  — 

Cowl,  helm  ; and  crozier,  battle-axe. 
Abbot  Alfwig, 

Leofric,  and  all  the  monks  of  Peter- 
boro’ 

Strike  for  the  king ; but  I,  old  wretch, 
old  Stigand, 

With  hands  too  limp  to  brandish  iron 
— and  yet 


642 


HAROLD. 


I have  a power  — would  Harold  ask 
me  for  it  — 

I have  a power. 

Edith.  What  power,  holy  father  ? 

Stigand.  Power  now  from  Harold 
to  command  thee  hence 
And  see  thee  safe  from  Senlac. 

Edith.  I remain  ! 

Stigand.  Yea,  so  will  I,  daughter, 
until  I find 

Which  way  the  battle  balance.  I can 
see  it 

From  where  we  stand  : and,  live  or 
die,  I would 
I were  among  them  ! 

Canons  from  Waltham  (singing  without) . 

Salva  patriam 
Sancte  Pater, 

Salva  Fili, 

Salva  Spiritus, 

Salva  patriam, 

Sancta  Mater.1 

Edith.  Are  those  the  blessed  angels 
quiring,  father '? 

Stigand.  No,  daughter,  but  the 
canons  out  of  Waltham, 

The  king’s  foundation,  that  have  fol- 
low’d him. 

Edith.  O God  of  battles,  make  their 
wall  of  shields 

Firm  as  thy  cliffs,  strengthen  their 
palisades ! 

What  is  that  whirring  sound  1 

Stigand.  The  Norman  arrow  ! 

Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  battle  — 

* is  he  safe  ? 

Stigand.  The  king  of  England 
stands  between  his  banners. 
He  glitters  on  the  crowning  of  the  hill. 
God  save  King  Harold  ! 

Edith.  — chosen  by  his  people 
And  fighting  for  his  people  ! 

Stigand.  There  is  one 

Come  as  Goliath  came  of  yore  — he 
flings 

His  brand  in  air  and  catches  it  again, 
He  is  chanting  some  old  warsong. 

Edith.  And  no  David 

1 The  a throughout  these  Latin  hymns 
should  be  sounded  broad,  as  in  “ father.” 


To  meet  him  ? 

Stigand.  Ay,  there  springs  a Saxon 
on  him, 

Falls  — and  another  falls. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.  Lo ! our  good  Gurth  hath 
smitten  him  to  the  death. 

Edith.  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 
Harold  ! 

Canons  (singing). 

Hostis  in  Angliam 
Ruit  praedator, 

Illorum,  Domine, 

Scutum  scindatur! 

Hostis  per  Anglise 
Plagas  bacchatur ; 

Casa  crematur 
Pastor  fugatur 
Grex  trucidatur  — 

Stigand.  Illos  trucida,  Domine. 
Edith.  Ay,  good  father. 

Canons  (singing). 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur ! 

English  cries.  Harold  and  Holy 
Cross  ! Out ! out ! 

Stigand.  Our  javelins 

Answer  their  arrows.  All  the  Nor- 
man foot 

Are  storming  up  the  hill.  The  range 
of  knights 

Sit,  each  a statue  on  his  horse,  and 
wait. 

English  cries.  Harold  and  God  Al- 
mighty ! 

Norman  cries.  Ha  Rou  ! Ha  Rou! 
Canons  (singing). 

Eques  cum  pedite 
Praepediatur ! 

Illorum  in  lacrymas 
Cruor  fundatur ! 

Pereant,  pereant, 

Anglia  precatur. 

Stigand.  Look,  daughter,  look. 
Edith.  Nay,  father,  look  for  me  ! 
Stigand.  Our  axes  lighten  with  a sin- 
gle flash 

About  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  heads 
And  arms  are  sliver’d  off  and  splin- 
ter’d by 


HAROLD. 


643 


Their  lightning  — and  they  fly  — the 
Norman  flies. 

Edith.  Stigand,  O father,  have  we 
won  the  day  ? 

Stigand.  No,  daughter,  no — they 
fall  behind  the  horse  — 

Their  horse  are  thronging  to  the  bar- 
rieades ; 

I see  the  gonfanon  of  Holy  Peter 

Floating  above  their  helmets  — ha  ! 
he  is  down ! 

Edith.  He  down  ! Who  down  ? 

Stigand.  The  Norman  Count  is 
down. 

Edith.  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 
England  ! 

Stigand.  No,  no,  he  hath  risen 
again  — he  bares  his  face  — 

Shouts  something  — he  points  onward 
— all  their  horse 

Swallow  the  hill  locust-like,  swarming 
up. 

Edith.  O God  of  battles,  make  his 
battle-axe  keen 

As  thine  own  sharp-dividing  justice, 
heavy 

As  thine  own  bolts  that  fall  on  crime- 
ful heads 

Charged  with  the  weight  of  heaven 
wherefrom  they  fall ! 

Canons  [singing). 

Jacta  tonitrua 
Deus  bellator! 

Surgas  e tenebris, 

Sis  vindicator ! 

Fulmina,  fulmina, 

Deus  vastator ! 

Edith.  0 God  of  battles,  they  are 
three  to  one, 

Make  thou  one  man  as  three  to  roll 
them  down ! 

Canons  [singing). 

Equus  cum  equite 
Dejiciatur ! 

Acies,  Acies 
Prona  sternatur ! 

Illorum  lanceas 
Erange  Creator! 

Stigand.  Yea,  yea,  for  how  their 
lances  snap  and  shiver 


Against  the  shifting  blaze  of  Harold’s 
axe ! 

War-woodman  of  old  Woden,  how  he 
fells 

The  mortal  copse  of  faces ! There ! 
And  there  ! 

The  horse  and  horseman  cannot  meet 
the  shield, 

The  blow  that  brains  the  horseman 
cleaves  the  horse, 

The  horse  and  horseman  roll  along 
the  hill, 

They  fly  once  more,  they  fly,  the  Nor- 
man flies  ! 

Equus  cum  equite 
Praecipitatur. 

Edith.  O God,  the  God  of  truth  hath 
heard  my  cry. 

Follow  them,  follow  them,  drive  them 
to  the  sea ! 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur ! 

Stigand.  Truth  ! no ; a lie  ; a trick, 
a Norman  trick ! 

They  turnon  the  pursuer,  horse  against 
foot, 

They  murder  all  that  follow. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.  Hot-headedfools — toburst 
the  wall  of  shields  ! 

They  have  broken  the  commandment 
of  the  king  ! 

Edith.  His  oath  was  broken  — O 
holy  Norman  Saints, 

Ye  that  now  are  of  heaven,  and  see 
beyond 

Your  Norman  shrines,  pardon  it,  par- 
don it, 

That  he  forsware  himself  for  all  he 
loved, 

Me,  me  and  all ! Look  out  upon  the 
battle ! 

Stigand.  They  thunder  again  upon 
the  barricades. 

My  sight  is  eagle,  but  the  strife  so 
thick  — 

This  is  the  hottest  of  it : hold,  ash ! 
hold,  willow ! 

English  cries.  Out,  out ! 

Norman  cries.  Ha  Roul 


644 


HAROLD. 


Stigand.  Ha!  Gurth  hath  leapt  upon 
him 

And  slain  him  : he  hath  fallen. 

Edith.  And  I am  heard. 

Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest!  fallen, 
fallen ! 

Stigand.  No,  no,  his  horse  — he 
mounts  another  — wields 

His  war-club,  dashes  it  on  Gurth,  and 
Gurth, 

Our  noble  Gurth,  is  down  ! 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.  And  Leofwin  is  down ! 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us! 

O Thouthatknowest,  let  not  my  strong 
prayer 

Be  weaken’d  in  thy  sight,  because  I 
love 

The  husband  of  another  ! 

Norman  cries.  Ha  Rou  ! Ha  Eou! 

Edith.  I do  not  hear  our  English 
war-cry. 

Stigand.  No. 

Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  battle — *• 
is  he  safe  ? 

Stigand.  He  stands  between  the 
banners  with  the  dead 

So  piled  about  him  he  can  hardly 
move. 

Edith  ( takes  up  the  war-cry ).  Out! 
out! 

Norman  cries.  Ha  Rou  ! 

Edith  ( cries  out).  Harold  and  Holy 
Cross  ! 

Norman  cries.  Ha  Rou  ! Ha  Rou ! 

Edith.  What  is  that  whirring  sound  ? 

Stigand.  The  Norman  sends  his  ar- 
rows up  to  Heaven, 

They  fall  on  those  within  the  palisade  ! 

Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  hill  — is 
Harold  there  1 

Stigand.  Sanguelac  — Sanguelac  — 
the  arrow — the  arrow ! — away ! 

SCENE  II.  — Field  of  the  Dead. 

Night. 

Aldwyth  and  Edith. 

Aldwyth.  0 Edith,  art  thou  here  ? 
6 Harold,  Harold  — 

Our  Harold  — we  shall  never  see  him 
more. 


Edith.  For  there  was  more  than  sis- 
ter in  my  kiss, 

And  so  the  saints  were  wroth.  I can- 
not love  them, 

For  they  are  Norman  saints  — and  yet 
I should  — 

They  are  so  much  holier  than  their 
harlot’s  son 

With  whom  they  play’d  their  game 
against  the  king  ! 

Aldwyth.  The  king  is  slain,  the 
kingdom  overthrown ! 

Edith.  No  matter  ! 

Aldwyth.  How  no  matter,  Harold 
slain  ? — 

I cannot  find  his  body.  O help  me 
thou ! 

0 Edith,  if  I ever  wrought  against 

thee, 

Forgive  me  thou,  and  help  me  here  ! 

Edith.  No  matter ! 

Aldwyth.  Not  help  me,  nor  forgive 
me  ? 

Edith.  So  thou  saidest. 

Aldwyth.  I say  it  now,  forgive  me  ! 

Edith.  Cross  me  not  ! 

1 am  seeking  one  who  wedded  me  in 

secret. 

Whisper ! God’s  angels  only  know  it. 
Ha! 

What  art  thou  doing  here  among  the 
dead  1 

They  are  stripping  the  dead  bodies 
naked  yonder, 

And  thou  art  come  to  rob  them  of 
their  rings  ! 

Aldwyth.  O Edith,  Edith,  I have 
lost  both  crown 

And  husband. 

Edith.  So  have  I. 

Aldwyth.  I tell  thee,  girl, 

I am  seeking  my  dead  Harold. 

Edith.  And  I mine  ! 

The  Holy  Father  strangled  him  with 
a hair 

Of  Peter,  and  his  brother  Tostig  helpt ; 

The  wicked  sister  clapt  her  hands  and 
laugh’d ; 

Then  all  the  dead  fell  on  him. 

Aldwyth.  Edith,  Edith  — 

Edith.  What  was  he  like,  this  hus- 
band ? like  to  thee  1 


“ I have  found  him,  I am  happy.” 

Page  045. 


HAROLD. 


645 


Call  not  for  help  from  me.  I knew 
him  not. 

He  lies  not  here : not  close  beside  the 
standard. 

Here  fell  the  truest,  manliest  hearts 
of  England. 

Go  further  hence  and  find  him. 

Aldwyth.  She  is  crazed  ! 

Edith.  That  doth  not  matter  either. 
Lower  the  light. 

He  must  be  here. 

Enter  two  Canons,  Osgod  and 
Athelric,  with  torches.  They 
turn  over  the  dead  bodies  and 
examine  them  as  they  pass. 

Osyod.  I think  that  this  is  Thurkill. 

Athelric.  More  likely  Godric. 

Osgod.  I am  sure  this  body 

Is  Alfwig,  the  king’s  uncle. 

Athelric.  So  it  is  ! 

No,  no  — brave  Gurth,  one  gash  from 
brow  to  knee ! 

Osgod.  And  here  is  Leofwin. 

Edith.  And  here  is  He  ! 

Aldwyth.  Harold  ? Oh  no — nay,  if 
it  were  — my  God, 

They  have  so  maim’d  and  murder’d 
all  his  face 

There  is  no  man  can  swear  to  him. 

Edith.  But  one  woman! 

Look  you,  we  never  mean  to  part  again. 

I have  found  him,  I am  happy. 

Was  there  not  someone  ask’d  me  for 
forgiveness  1 

I yield  it  freely,  being  the  true  wife 

Of  this  dead  King,  who  never  bore 
revenge. 

Enter  Count  William  and  William 
Malet. 

William.  Who  be  these  women  ? 
And  what  body  is  this  ? 

Edith.  Harold,  thy  better ! 

William.  Ay,  and  what  art  thou  ? 

Edith.  His  wife! 

Malet.  Not  true,  my  girl,  here  is  the 
Queen  ! [Pointing  out  Aldwyth. 

William  {to  Aldwyth).  Wast  thou 
his  Queen  ? 

Aldwrjth.  I was  the  Queen  of  Wales. 


William.  Why  then  of  England. 
Madam,  fear  us  not. 

{To  Malet.)  Knowest  thou  this 
other  ? 

Malet.  When  I visited  England, 
Some  held  she  was  his  wife  in  secret 
— some  — 

Well  — some  believed  she  was  his 
paramour. 

Edith.  Norman,  thou  liest ! liars  all 
of  you, 

Your  Saints  and  all!  / am  his  wife! 
and  she  — 

For  look,  our  marriage  ring ! 

[She  draws  it  off  the  finger  of  Harold. 

I lost  it  somehow  — 
I lost  it,  playing  with  it  when  I was 
wild. 

That  bred  the  doubt ! but  I am  wiser 
now  . . . 

I am  too  wise  . . . Will  none  among 
you  all 

Bear  me  true  witness  — only  for  this 
once- — 

That  I have  found  it  here  again  ? 

[She  puts  it  on. 

And  thou, 

Thy  wife  am  I for  ever  and  evermore. 

[Falls  on  the  body  and  dies. 

William.  Death!  — and  enough  of 
death  for  this  one  day, 

The  day  of  St.  Calixtus,  and  the  day, 
My  day  when  I was  born. 

Malet.  And  this  dead  king’s 

Who,  king  or  not,  hath  kinglike 
fought  and  fallen, 

His  birthday,  too.  It  seems  but  yes- 
ter-even 

I held  it  with  him  in  his  English  halls, 
His  day,  with  all  his  rooftree  ringing 
“ Harold,” 

Before  he  fell  into  the  snare  of  Guy  ; 
When  all  men  counted  Harold  would 
be  king, 

And  Harold  was  most  happy. 

William.  Thou  art  half  English. 
Take  them  away ! 

Malet,  I vow  to  build  a church  to  God 
Here  on  the  hill  of  battle  ; let  our 
high  altar 

Stand  where  their  standard  fell  . . . 
where  these  two  lie. 


646 


HAROLD. 


Take  them  away,  I do  not  love  to  see 
them. 

Pluck  the  dead  woman  off  the  dead 
man,  Malet ! 

Malet.  Faster  than  ivy.  Must  I 
hack  her  arms  off  ? 

How  shall  I part  them  ? 

William.  Leave  them.  Let  them  be  ! 

Bury  him  and  his  paramour  together. 

He  that  was  false  in  oath  to  me,  it 
seems 

Was  false  to  his  own  wife.  We  will 
not  give  him 

A Christian  burial : yet  he  was  a war- 
rior, 

And  wise,  yea  truthful,  till  that 
blighted  vow 

Which  God  avenged  to-day. 

Wrap  them  together  in  a purple  cloak 

And  lay  them  both  upon  the  waste 
sea-shore 

At  Hastings,  there  to  guard  the  land 
for  which 

He  did  forswear  himself  — a warrior 
— ay, 

And  but  that  Holy  Peter  fought  for  us, 

And  that  the  false  Northumbrian  held 
aloof, 

And  save  for  that  chance  arrow  which 
the  Saints 

Sharpen’d  and  sent  against  him  — 
who  can  tell  ? — 


Three  horses  had  I slain  beneath  me  : 
twice 

I thought  that  all  was  lost.  Since  I 
knew  battle, 

And  that  was  from  my  boyhood, 
never  yet  — 

No,  by  the  splendor  of  God  — have  1 
fought  men 

Like  Harold  and  his  brethren,  and  his 
guard 

Of  English.  Every  man  about  his  king 

Fell  where  he  stood.  They  loved  him; 
and,  pray  God 

My  Normans  may  but  move  as  true 
with  me 

To  the  door  of  death.  Of  one  self- 
stock  at  first, 

Make  them  again  one  people  — Nor- 
man, English ; 

And  English,  Norman ; we  should 
have  a hand 

To  grasp  the  world  with,  and  a foot 
to  stamp  it  . . . 

Flat.  Praise  the  Saints.  It  is  over. 
No  more  blood ! 

I am  king  of  England,  so  they  thwart 
me  not, 

And  I will  rule  according  to  their  laws. 

( To  Aldwyth.)  Madam,  we  will  en- 
treat thee  with  all  honor. 

Aldwyth.  My  punishment  is  more 
than  I can  bear. 


THE  LOVER’S  TALE. 


The  original  Preface  to  “ The  Lover’s  Tale”  states  that  it  was  composed  in  my  nineteenth 
year.  Two  only  of  the  three  parts  then  written  were  printed,  when,  feeling  the  imperfection 
of  the  poem,  I withdrew  it  from  the  press.  One  of  my  friends  however  who,  boylike,  admired 
the  boy’s  work,  distributed  among  our  common  associates  of  that  hour  some  copies  of 
these  two  parts,  without  my  knowledge,  without  the  omissions  and  amendments  which 
I had  in  contemplation,  and  marred  by  the  many  misprints  of  the  compositor.  Seeing  that 
these  two  parts  have  of  late  been  mercilessly  pirated,  and  that  what  I had  deemed  scarce 
worthy  to  live  is  not  allowed  to  die,  may  1 not  be  pardoned  if  I suffer  the  whole  poem  at  last 
to  come  into  the  light  — accompanied  with  a reprint  of  the  sequel  — a work  of  my  mature  life 
— “ The  Golden  Supper  ”? 

May,  1879. 

ARGUMENT. 

Julian,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his  friend  and  rival, 
Lionel,  endeavors  to  narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for  her,  and  the  strange  sequel.  He 
speaks  (in  Parts  II.  and  III.)  of  having  been  haunted  by  visions  and  the  sound  of  bells,  tolling 
for  a funeral,  and  at  last  ringing  for  a marriage;  but  he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  ap- 
proaches the  Event,  and  a witness  to  it  completes  the  tale. 


I. 

Here  far  away,  seen  from  the  top- 
most cliff, 

Filling  with  purple  gloom  the  vacan- 
cies 

Between  the  tufted  hills,  the  sloping 
seas 

Hung  in  mid-heaven,  and  half-way 
down  rare  sails, 

White  as  white  clouds,  floated  from 
sky  to  sky. 

Oh ! pleasant  breast  of  waters,  quiet 
bay, 

Like  to  a quiet  mind  in  the  loud 
world, 

Where  the  chafed  breakers  of  the 
outer  sea 

Sank  powerless,  as  anger  falls  aside 

And  withers  on  the  breast  of  peaceful 
love ; 

Thou  didst  receive  the  growth  of  pines 
that  fledged 

The  hills  that  watch’d  thee,  as  Love 
watcheth  Love, 

In  thine  own  essence,  and  delight  thy- 
self 


To  make  it  wholly  thine  on  sunny 
days. 

Keep  thou  thy  name  of  “ Lover’s 
Bay.”  See,  sirs, 

Even  now  the  Goddess  of  the  Past, 
that  takes 

The  heart,  and  sometimes  touches  but 
one  string 

That  quivers,  and  is  silent,  and  some- 
times 

Sweeps  suddenly  all  its  half-moulder’d 
chords 

To  some  old  melody,  begins  to  play 

That  air  which  pleased  her  first.  I 
feel  thy  breath ; 

I come,  great  Mistress  of  the  ear  and 
eye  : 

Thy  breath  is  of  the  pinewood  ; and 
tho’  years 

Have  hollow’d  out  a deep  and  stormy 
strait 

Betwixt  the  native  land  of  Love  and 
me, 

Breathe  but  a little  on  me,  and  the 
sail 

Will  draw  me  to  the  rising  of  the 
sun, 


648 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


The  lucid  chambers  of  the  morning 

star, 

And  East  of  Life. 

Permit  me,  friend,  I prythee, 

To  pass  my  hand  across  my  brows, 
and  muse 

On  those  dear  hills,  that  never  more 
will  meet 

The  sight  that  throbs  and  aches  be- 
neath my  touch, 

As  tho’  there  beat  a heart  in  either 
eye ; 

For  when  the  outer  lights  are  darken’d 

thus, 

The  memory’s  vision  hath  a keener 
edge. 

It  grows  upon  me  now  — the  semi- 
circle 

Of  dark-blue  waters  and  the  narrow 
fringe 

Of  curving  beach  — its  wreaths  of 
dripping  green  — 

Its  pale  pink  shells  — the  summer- 
house aloft 

That  open’d  on  the  pines  with  doors 
of  glass, 

A mountain  nest  — the  pleasure-boat 
that  rock’d, 

Light-green  with  its  own  shadow,  keel 
to  keel, 

Upon  the  dappled  dimplings  of  the 
wave, 

That  blanch’d  upon  its  side. 

0 Love,  O Hope  ! 

They  come,  they  crowd  upon  me  all 
at  once  — 

Moved  from  the  cloud  of  unforgotten 
things, 

That  sometimes  on  the  horizon  of  the 
mind 

Lies  folded,  often  sweeps  athwart  in 
storm  — 

Flash  upon  flash  they  lighten  thro’  me 
— days 

Of  dewy  dawning  and  the  amber 
eves 

When  thou  and  I,  Camilla,  thou  and 

I 

Were  borne  about  the  bay  or  safely 
moor’d 


Beneath  a low-brow’d  cavern,  where 
the  tide 

Plash’d,  sapping  its  worn  ribs;  and  all 
without 

The  slowly-ridging  rollers  on  the 
cliffs 

Clash’d,  calling  to  each  other,  and 
thro’  the  arch 

Down  those  loud  waters,  like  a setting 
star, 

Mixt  with  the  gorgeous  west  the  light- 
house shone, 

And  silver-smiling  Venus  ere  she  fell 

Would  often  loiter  in  her  balmy 
blue, 

To  crown  it  with  herself. 

Here,  too,  my  love 

Waver’d  at  anchor  with  me,  when  day 
hung 

From  his  mid-dome  in  Heaven’s  airy 
halls ; 

Gleams  of  the  water-circles  as  they 
broke, 

Flicker’d  like  doubtful  smiles  about 
her  lips, 

Quiver’d  a flying  glory  on  her  hair, 

Leapt  like  a passing  thought  across 
her  eyes ; 

And  mine  with  one  that  will  not  pass, 
till  earth 

And  heaven  pass  too,  dwelt  on  my 
heaven,  a face 

Most  starry-fair,  but  kindled  from 
within 

As  ’twere  with  dawn.  She  was  dark- 
hair’d,  dark-eyed: 

Oh,  such  dark  eyes ! a single  glance 
of  them 

Will  govern  a whole  life  from  birth 
to  death, 

Careless  of  all  things  else,  led  on 
with  light 

In  trances  and  in  visions  : look  at 
them, 

You  lose  yourself  in  utter  ignorance; 

You  cannot  find  their  depth  ; for  they 
go  back, 

And  farther  back,  and  still  withdraw 
themselves 

Quite  into  the  deep  soul,  that  ever 
more 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


649 


Fresh  springing  from  her  fountains  in 
the  brain, 

Still  pouring  thro’,  floods  with  redun- 
dant life 

Her  narrow  portals. 

e 

Trust  me,  long  ago 

I should  have  died,  if  it  were  possible 

To  die  in  gazing  on  that  perfectness 

Which  I do  bear  within  me:  I had 
died, 

But  from  my  farthest  lapse,  my  latest 
ebb, 

Thine  image,  like  a charm  of  light 
and  strength 

Upon  the  waters,  push’d  me  back 
again 

On  these  deserted  sands  of  barren 
life. 

Tho’  from  the  deep  vault  where  the 
heart  of  Hope 

Fell  into  dust,  and  crumbled  in  the 
dark  — 

Forgetting  how  to  render  beautiful 

Her  countenance  with  quick  and 
healthful  blood  — 

Thou  didst  not  sway  me  upward; 
could  I perish 

While  thou,  a meteor  of  the  sepul- 
chre, 

Didst  swathe  thyself  all  round  Hope’s 
quiet  urn 

For  ever?  He,  that  saith  it,  hath 
o’er-stept 

The  slippery  footing  of  his  narrow 
wit, 

And  fall’n  away  from  judgment. 
Thou  art  light, 

To  which  my  spirit  leaneth  all  her 
flowers, 

And  length  of  days,  and  immortality 

Of  thought,  and  freshness  ever  self- 
renew’d. 

For  Time  and  Grief  abode  too  long 
with  Life, 

And,  like  all  other  friends  i’  the  world, 
at  last 

They  grew  aweary  of  her  fellowship  : 

So  Time  and  Grief  did  beckon  unto 
Death, 

And  Death  drew  nigh  and  beat  the 
doors  of  Life ; 


But  thou  didst  sit  alone  in  the  inner 
house, 

A wakeful  portress,  and  didst  parle 
with  Death,  — 

“ This  is  a charmed  dwelling  which  I 
.old;” 

So  Death  gave  back,  and  would  no 
further  come. 

Yet  is  my  life  nor  in  the  present  time, 

Nor  in  the  present  place.  To  me 
alone, 

Push’d  from  his  chair  of  regal  heri- 
tage, 

The  Present  is  the  vassal  of  the  Past : 

So  that,  in  that  I have  lived,  do  I live, 

And  cannot  die,  and  am,  in  having 
been  — 

A portion  of  the  pleasant  yesterday, 

Thrust  forward  on  to-day  and  out  of 
place ; 

A body  journeying  onward,  sick  with 
toil, 

The  weight  as  if  of  age  upon  my 
limbs, 

The  grasp  of  hopeless  grief  about  my 
heart, 

And  all  the  senses  weaken’d,  save  in 
that, 

Which  long  ago  they  had  glean’d  and 
garner’d  up 

Into  the  granaries  of  memory  — 

The  clear  brow,  bulwark  of  the 
precious  brain, 

Chink’d  as  you  see,  and  seam’d  — and 
all  the  while 

The  light  soul  twines  and  mingles 
with  the  growths 

Of  vigorous  early  days,  attracted, 
won, 

Married,  made  one  with,  molten  into 
all 

The  beautiful  in  Past  of  act  or  place, 

And  like  the  all-enduring  camel, 
driven 

Far  from  the  diamond  fountain  by  the 
palms, 

Who  toils  across  the  middle  moonlit 
nights, 

Or  when  the  white  heats  of  the  blind- 
ing noons 

Beat  from  the  concave  sand ; yet  in 
him  keeps 


650 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


A draught  of  that  sweet  fountain  that 
he  loves, 

To  stay  his  feet  from  falling,  and  his 
spirit 

From  bitterness  of  death. 

Ye  ask  me,  friends, 

When  I began  to  love.  How  should 
I tell  you  1 

Or  from  the  after-fulness  of  my  heart, 

Flow  back  again  unto  my  slender 
spring 

And  first  of  love,  tho’  every  turn  and 
depth 

Between  is  clearer  in  my  life  than  all 

Its  present  flow.  Ye  know  not  what 
ye  ask. 

How  should  the  broad  and  open  flower 
tell 

What  sort  of  bud  it  was,  when,  prest 
together 

In  its  green  sheath,  close-lapt  in  silken 
folds, 

It  seem’d  to  keep  its  sweetness  to  it- 
self, 

Yet  was  not  the  less  sweet  for  that  it 
seem’d  ? 

For  young  Life  knows  not  when  young 
Life  was  born. 

But  takes  it  all  for  granted : neither 
Love, 

Warm  in  the  heart,  his  cradle,  can 
remember 

Love  in  the  womb,  but  resteth  satis- 
fied, 

Looking  on  her  that  brought  him  to 
the  light : 

Or  as  men  know  not  when  they  fall 
asleep 

Into  delicious  dreams,  our  other  life, 

So  know  1 not  when  I began  to  love. 

This  is  my  sum  of  knowledge  — that 
my  love 

Grew  with  myself  — say  rather,  was 
my  growth, 

My  inward  sap,  the  hold  I have  on 
earth, 

My  outward  circling  air  wherewith  I 
breathe, 

Which  yet  upholds  my  life,  and  ever- 
more 

Is  to  me  daily  life  and  daily  death  ; 


For  how  should  I have  lived  and  not 
have  loved  'i 

Can  ye  take  off  the  sweetness  from 
the  flower, 

The  color  and  the  sweetness  from  the 
rose, 

And  place  them  by  themselves;  or  set 
apart 

Their  motions  and  their  brightness 
from  the  stars, 

And  then  point  out  the  flower  or  the 
star  1 

Orbuildawall  betwixt  my  life  and  love, 
And  tell  me  where  I am  ? ’Tis  even 
thus : 

In  that  I live  I love ; because  I love 
I live : wliate’er  is  fountain  to  the  one 
Is  fountain  to  the  other ; and  whene’er 
Our  God  unknits  the  riddle  of  the 
one, 

There  is  no  shade  or  fold  of  mystery 
Swathing  the  other. 

Many,  many  years, 
(For  they  seem  many  and  my  most  of 
life, 

And  well  I could  have  linger’d  in  that 
porch, 

So  unproportion’d  to  the  dwelling- 
place,) 

In  the  Maydews  of  childhood,  opposite 
The  flush  and  dawn  of  youth,  we  lived 
together, 

Apart,  alone  together  on  those  hills. 

Before  he  saw  my  day  my  father 
died, 

And  he  was  happy  that  he  saw  it  not; 
But  I and  the  first  daisy  on  his  grave 
From  the  same  clay  came  into  light 
at  once. 

As  Love  and  I do  number  equal  years, 
So  she,  my  love,  is  of  an  age  with  me. 
How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 
each  ! 

On  the  same  morning,  almost  the  same 
hour, 

Under  the  selfsame  aspect  of  the  stars, 
(Oh  falsehood  of  all  starcraft!)  we 
were  born. 

How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 
each ! 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


651 


The  sister  of  my  mother  — she  that 
bore 

Camilla  close  beneath  her  beating 
heart, 

Which  to  the  imprison’d  spirit  of  the 
child, 

With  its  true-touched  pulses  in  the 
flow 

And  hourly  visitation  of  the  blood, 

Sent  notes  of  preparation  manifold, 

And  mellow’d  echoes  of  the  outer 
world  — 

My  mother’s  sister,  mother  of  my 
love, 

Who  had  a twofold  claim  upon  my 
heart, 

One  twofold  mightier  than  the  other 
was, 

In  giving  so  much  beauty  to  the 
world, 

And  so  much  wealth  as  God  had 
charged  her  with  — 

Loathing  to  put  it  from  herself  for 
ever, 

Left  her  own  life  with  it;  and  dying 
thus, 

Crown’d  with  her  highest  act  the 
placid  face 

And  breathless  body  of  her  good  deeds 
past. 

So  were  we  born,  so  orphan’d.  She 
was  motherless 

And  I without  a father.  So  from 
each 

Of  those  two  pillars  which  from  earth 
uphold 

Our  childhood,  one  had  fallen  away, 
and  all 

The  careful  burthen  of  our  tender 
years 

Trembled  upon  the  other.  He  that 
gave 

Her  life,  to  me  delightedly  fulfill’d 

All  lovingkindnesses,  all  offices 

Of  watchful  care  and  trembling  ten- 
derness. 

He  waked  for  both  : he  pray’d  for 
both  : he  slept 

Dreaming  of  both  : nor  was  his  love 
the  less 

Because  it  was  divided,  and  shot  forth 


Boughs  on  each  side,  laden  with  whole- 
some shade, 

Wherein  we  nested  sleeping  or  awake, 

And  sang  aloud  the  matin-song  of 
life. 

She  was  my  foster-sister:  on  one  arm 

The  flaxen  ringlets  of  our  infancies 

Wander’d,  the  while  we  rested:  one 
soft  lap 

Pillow’d  us  both : a common  light  of 
eyes 

Was  on  us  as  we  lay:  our  baby  lips, 

Kissing  one  bosom,  ever  drew  from 
thence 

The  stream  of  life,  one  stream,  one 
life,  one  blood, 

One  sustenance,  which,  still  as  thought 
grew  large, 

Still  larger  moulding  all  the  house  of 
thought, 

Made  all  our  tastes  and  fancies  like, 
perhaps  — 

All  — all  but  one ; and  strange  to  me, 
and  sweet, 

Sweet  thro’  strange  years  to  know 
that  whatsoe’er 

Our  general  mother  meant  for  me 
alone, 

Our  mutual  mother  dealt  to  both  of 
us : 

So  what  was  earliest  mine  in  earliest 
life, 

I shared  with  her  in  whom  myself 
remains. 

As  was  our  childhood,  so  our  in- 
fancy, 

They  tell  me,  was  a very  miracle 

Of  fellow-feeling  and  communion. 

They  tell  me  that  we  would  not  be 
alone,  — 

We  cried  when  we  were  parted ; when 
I wept, 

Her  smile  lit  up  the  rainbow  on  my 
tears, 

Stay’d  on  the  cloud  of  sorrow ; that 
we  loved 

The  sound  of  one-another’s  voices 
more 

Than  the  gray  cuckoo  loves  his  name, 
and  learn’d 

To  lisp  in  tune  together ; that  we  slept 


652 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


In  the  same  cradle  always, face  to  face. 

Heart  beating  time  to  heart,  lip  press- 
ing lip, 

Folding  each  other,  breathing  on  each 
other, 

Dreaming  together  (dreaming  of  each 
other 

They  should  have  added),  till  the 
morning  light 

Sloped  thro’  the  pines,  upon  the  dewy 
pane 

Falling,  unseal’d  our  eyelids,  and  we 
woke 

To  gaze  upon  each  other.  If  this  be 
true, 

At  thought  of  which  my  whole  soul 
languishes 

And  faints,  and  hath  no  pulse,  no 
breath  — as  tho’ 

A man  in  some  still  garden  should  in- 
fuse 

Rich  atar  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose, 

Till,  drunk  with  its  own  wine,  and 
overfull 

Of  sweetness,  and  in  smelling  of  itself, 

It  fall  on  its  own  thorns  — if  this  be 
true  — 

And  that  way  my  wish  leads  me  ever- 
more 

Still  to  believe  it  — ’tis  so  sweet  a 
thought, 

Why  in  the  utter  stillness  of  the 
soul 

Doth  question’d  memory  answer  not, 
nor  tell 

Of  this  our  earliest,  our  closest-drawn, 

Most  loveliest,  earthly-heavenliest  har- 
mony ? 

O blossom’d  portal  of  the  lonely 
house, 

Green  prelude,  April  promise,  glad 
new  year 

Of  Being,  which  with  earliest  violets 

And  lavish  carol  of  clear- throated  larks 

Fill’d  all  the  March  of  life ! — I will 
not  speak  of  thee. 

These  have  not  seen  thee,  these  can 
never  know  thee, 

. They  cannot  understand  me.  Pass 
we  then 

A.  term  of  eighteen  years.  Ye  would 
but  laugh, 


If  I should  tell  you  how  I hoard  in 
thought 

The  faded  rhymes  and  scraps  of  an- 
cient crones, 

Gray  relics  of  the  nurseries  of  the 
world, 

Which  are  as  gems  set  in  my  memory, 

Because  she  learnt  them  with  me ; or 
what  use 

To  know  her  father  left  us  just  before 

The  daffodil  was  blown  % or  how  we 
found 

The  dead  man  cast  upon  the  shore  ? 
All  this 

Seems  to  the  quiet  daylight  of  your 
minds 

But  cloud  and  smoke,  and  in  the  dark 
of  mine 

Is  traced  with  flame.  Move  with  me 
to  the  event. 

There  came  a glorious  morning, 
such  a one 

As  dawns  but  once  a season.  Mercury 

On  such  a morning  would  have  flung 
himself 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  and  swum  with 
balanced  wings 

To  some  tall  mountain : when  I said 
to  her, 

“ A day  for  Gods  to  stoop,”  she  an- 
swered. “Ay, 

And  men  to  soar : ” for  as  that  other 
gazed, 

Shading  his  eyes  till  all  the  fiery  cloud, 

The  prophet  and  the  chariot  and  the 
steeds, 

Suck’d  into  oneness  like  a little  star 

Were  drunk  into  the  inmost  blue,  we 
stood, 

When  first  we  came  from  out  the 
pines  at  noon, 

With  hands  for  eaves,  uplooking  and 
almost 

Waiting  to  see  some  blessed  shape  in 
heaven, 

So  bathed  we  were  in  brilliance. 
Never  yet 

Before  or  after  have  I known  the 
spring 

Pour  with  such  sudden  deluges  of 
light 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


653 


Into  the  middle  summer ; for  that  day 

Love,  rising,  shook  his  wings,  and 
charged  the  winds 

With  spiced  May-sweets  from  bound 
to  bound,  and  blew 

Fresh  fire  into  the  sun,  and  from 
within 

Burst  thro’  the  heated  buds,  and  sent 
his  soul 

Into  the  songs  of  birds,  and  touch’d 
far-off 

His  mountain-altars,  his  high  hills, 
with  flame 

Milder  and  purer. 

Thro’  the  rocks  we  wound  : 

The  great  pine  shook  with  lonely 
sounds  of  joy 

That  came  on  the  sea-wind.  As 
mountain  streams 

Our  blood  ran  free : the  sunshine 
seem’d  to  brood 

More  warmly  on  the  heart  than  on 
the  brow. 

We  often  paused,  and,  looking  back, 
we  saw 

The  clefts  and  openings  in  the  moun- 
tains fill’d 

With  the  blue  valley  and  the  glisten- 
ing brooks, 

And  all  the  low  dark  groves,  a land 
of  love ! 

A land  of  promise,  a land  of  memory, 

A land  of  promise  flowing  with  the 
milk 

And  honey  of  delicious  memories  ! 

And  down  to  sea,  and  far  as  eye  could 
ken, 

Each  way  from  verge  to  verge  a Holy 
Land, 

Still  growing  holier  as  you  near’d  the 
bay, 

For  there  the  Temple  stood. 

When  we  had  reach’d 

The  grassy  platform  on  some  hill,  I 
stoop’d, 

I gather’d  the  wild  herbs,  and  for  her 
brows 

And  mine  made  garlands  of  the  self- 
same flower, 

Which  she  took  smiling,  and  with  my 
work  thus 


Crown’d  her  clear  forehead.  Once  or 
twice  she  told  me 

(For  I remember  all  things)  to  let  grow 

The  flowers  that  run  poison  in  their 
veins. 

She  said,  “ The  evil  flourish  in  the 
world.” 

Then  playfully  she  gave  herself  the 
lie  — 

“ Nothing  in  nature  is  unbeautiful ; 

So,  brother,  pluck  and  spare  not.” 
So  I wove 

Ev’n  the  dull-blooded  poppy-stem, 
“ whose  flower, 

Hued  with  the  scarlet  of  a fierce  sun- 
rise, 

Like  to  the  wild  youth  of  an  evil  prince, 

Is  without  sweetness,,  but  who  crowns 
himself 

Above  the  naked  poisons  of  his  heart 

In  his  old  age.”  A graceful  thought 
of  hers 

Grav’n  on  my  fancy ! And  oh,  how 
like  a nymph, 

A stately  mountain  nymph  she  look’d ! 
how  native 

Unto  the  hills  she  trod  on ! While  I 
gazed 

My  coronal  slowly  disentwined  itself 

And  fell  between  us  both  ; tho’  while 
I gazed 

My  spirit  leap’d  as  with  those  thrills 
of  bliss 

That  strike  across  the  soul  in  prayer, 
and  show  us 

That  we  are  surely  heard.  Methought 
a light 

Burst  from  the  garland  I had  wov’n, 
and  stood 

A solid  glory  on  her  bright  black  hair ; 

A light  methought  broke  from  her 
dark,  dark  eyes, 

And  shot  itself  into  the  singing  winds  ; 

A mystic  light  flash’d  ev’n  from  her 
white  robe 

As  from  a glass  in  the  sun,  and  fell 
about 

My  footsteps  on  the  mountains. 

Last  we  came 

To  what  our  people  call  “ The  Hill  of 
Woe” 


654 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


A bridge  is  there,  that,  look’d  at  from 
beneath 

Seems  but  a cobweb  filament  to  link 
The  yawning  of  an  earthquake-cloven 
chasm. 

And  thence  one  night,  when  all  the 
winds  were  loud, 

A woful  man  (for  so  the  story  went) 
Had  thrust  his  wife  and  child  and 
dash’d  himself 

Into  the  dizzy  depth  below.  Below, 
Fierce  in  the  strength  of  far  descent, 
a stream 

Flies  with  a shatter’d  foam  along  the 
chasm. 

The  path  was  perilous,  loosely  strown 
with  crags  : 

We  mounted  slowly;  yet  to  both 
there  came 

The  joy  of  life  in  steepness  overcome, 
And  victories  of  ascent,  and  looking 
down 

On  all  that  had  look’d  down  on  us ; 
and  joy 

In  breathing  nearer  heaven;  and  joy 
to  me, 

High  over  all  the  azure-circled  earth, 
To  breath  with  her  as  if  in  heaven  it- 
self ; 

And  more  than  joy  that  I to  her  be- 
came 

Her  guardian  and  her  angel,  raising  her 
Still  higher,  past  all  peril,  until  she  saw 
Beneath  her  feet  the  region  far  away, 
Beyond  the  nearest  mountain’s  bosky 
brows, 

Arise  in  open  prospect — heath  and  hill, 
And  hollow  lined  and  wooded  to  the 
lips, 

And  deep-down  walls  of  battlemented 
rock 

Gilded  with  broom,  or  shatter’d  into 
spires, 

And  glory  of  broad  waters  interfused, 
Whence  .rose  as  it  were  breath  and 
steam  of  gold, 

And  over  all  the  great  wood  rioting 
And  climbing,  streak’d  or  starr’d  at 
intervals 

With  falling  brook  or  blossom’d  bush 
— and  last, 


Framing  the  mighty  landscape  to  the 
west, 

A purple  range  of  mountain-cones, 
between 

Whose  interspaces  gush’d  in  blinding 
bursts 

The  incorporate  blaze  of  sun  and  sea. 


At  length 

Descending  from  the  point  and  stand- 
ing both, 

There  on  the  tremulous  bridge,  that 
from  beneath 

Had  seem’d  a gossamer  filament  up  in 
air, 

We  paused  amid  the  splendor.  All 
the  west 

And  ev’n  unto  the  middle  south  was 
ribb’d 

And  barr’d  with  bloom  on  bloom. 
The  sun  below, 

Held  for  a space  ’twixt  cloud  and 
wave,  shower’d  down 

Rays  of  a mighty  circle,  weaving  over 

That  various  wilderness  a tissue  of 
light 

Unparallel’d.  On  the  other  side,  the 
moon, 

Half-melted  into  thin  blue  air,  stood 
still, 

And  pale  and  fibrous  as  a wither’d 
leaf, 

Not  yet  endured  in  presence  of  His  eyes 

To  indue  his  lustre  ; most  unloverlike, 

Since  in  his  absence  full  of  light  and 


And  giving  light  to  others.  But  this 
most, 

Next  to  her  presence  whom  I loved 
so  well, 

Spoke  loudly  even  into  my  inmost 
heart 

As  to  my  outward  hearing:  the  loud 
stream, 

Forth  issuing  from  his  portals  in  the 
crag 

(A  visible  link  unto  the  home  of  my 
heart), 

Ran  amber  toward  the  west,  and  nigh 
the  sea 

Parting  my  own  loved  mountains  was 
received, 


THE  LOVER’S  TALE. 


655 


Shorn  of  its  strength,  into  the  sym- 
pathy 

Of  that  small  bay,  which  out  to  open 
main 

Glow’d  intermingling  close  beneath 
the  sun. 

Spirit  of  Love ! that  little  hour  was 
bound 

Shut  in  from  Time,  and  dedicate  to 
thee  : 

Thy  fires  from  heaven  had  touch’d  it, 
and  the  earth 

They  fell  on  became  fallow’d  ever- 
more. 

We  turn’d:  our  eyes  met:  hers 
were  bright,  and  mine 

Were  dim  with  floating  tears,  that  shot 
the  sunset 

In  lightnings  round  me ; and  my  name 
was  borne 

Upon  her  breath.  Henceforth  my 
name  has  been 

A hallow’d  memory  like  the  names  of 
old, 

A center’d,  glory-circled  memory, 

And  a peculiar  treasure,  brooking 
not 

Exchange  or  currency : and  in  that 
hour 

A hope  flow’d  round  me,  like  a golden 
mist 

Charm’d  amid  eddiesof  melodious  airs, 

A moment,  ere  the  onward  whirlwind 
shatter  it, 

Waver’d  and  floated  — which  was  less 
than  Hope, 

Because  it  lack’d  the  power  of  perfect 
Hope ; 

But  which  was  more  and  higher  than 
all  Hope, 

Because  all  other  Hope  had  lower  aim ; 

Even  that  this  name  to  which  her 
gracious  lips 

Hid  lend  such  gentle  utterance,  this 
one  name, 

In  some  obscure  hereafter,  might  in- 
wreathe 

(How  lovelier,  nobler  then!)  her  life, 
her  love, 

With  my  life,  love,  soul,  spirit,  and 
heart  and  strength. 


“ Brother,”  she  said,  “ let  this  be 
call’d  henceforth 

The  Hill  of  Hope ; ” and  I replied, 
“0  sister, 

My  will  is  one  with  thine ; the  Hill  of 
Hope.” 

Nevertheless,  we  did  not  change  the 
name. 

I did  not  speak  : I could  not  speak 
my  love. 

Love  lieth  deep  : Love  dwells  not  in 
lip-depths. 

Love  wraps  his  wings  on  either  side 
the  heart, 

Constraining  it  with  kisses  close  and 
warm, 

Absorbing  all  the  incense  of  sweet 
thoughts 

So  that  they  pass  not  to  the  shrine  of 
sound. 

Else  had  the  life  of  that  delighted  hour 

Drunk  in  the  largeness  of  the  utter- 
ance 

Of  Love ; but  how  should  Earthly 
measure  mete 

The  Heavenly-unmeasured  or  unlimit- 
ed Love, 

Who  scarce  can  tune  his  high  majestic 
sense 

Unto  the  thundersong  that  wheels  the 
spheres, 

Scarce  living  in  the  JEolian  harmony, 

And  flowing  odor  of  the  spacious  air, 

Scarce  housed  within  the  circle  of  this 
Earth, 

Be  cabin’d  up  in  words  and  syllables, 

Which  pass  with  that  which  breathes 
them  1 Sooner  Earth 

Might  go  round  Heaven,  and  the  strait 
girth  of  Time 

Inswathe  the  fulness  of  Eternity, 

Than  language  grasp  the  infinite  of 
Love. 

0 day  which  did  enwomb  that  happy 
hour, 

Thou  art  blessed  in  the  years,  divinest 
day! 

0 Genius  of  that  hour  which  dost  up- 
hold 

Thy  coronal  of  glory  like  a God, 


■ 


656 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Amid  thy  melancholy  mates  far-seen, 

Who  walk  before  thee,  ever  turning 
round 

To  gaze  upon  thee  till  their  eyes  are 
dim 

With  dwelling  on  the  light  and  depth 
of  thine, 

Thy  name  is  ever  worshipp’d  among 
hours ! 

Had  I died  then,  I had  not  seem’d  to 
die, 

For  bliss  stood  round  me  like  the  light 
of  Heaven,  — 

Had  I died  then,  I had  not  known  the 
death ; 

Yea  had  the  Power  from  whose  right 
hand  the  light 

Of  Life  issueth,  and  from  whose  left 
hand  floweth 

The  Shadow  of  Death,  perennial  efflu- 
ences, 

Whereof  to  all  that  draw  the  whole- 
some air, 

Somewhile  the  one  must  overflow  the 
other ; 

Then  had  he  stemm’d  my  day  with 
night,  and  driven 

My  current  to  the  fountain  whence  it 
sprang,  — 

Even  his  own  abiding  excellence  — 

On  me,  methinks,  that  shock  of  gloom 
had  fall’n 

Unfelt,  and  in  this  glory  I had  merged 

The  other,  like  the  sun  I gazed 
upon, 

Which  seeming  for  the  moment  due 
to  death, 

And  dipping  his  head  low  beneath  the 
verge, 

Yet  bearing  round  about  him  his  own 
day, 

In  confidence  of  unabated  strength, 

Steppeth  from  Heaven  to  Heaven, 
from  light  to  light, 

And  holdeth  his  undimmed  forehead 
far 

Into  a clearer  zenith,  pure  of  cloud. 

We  trod  the  shadow  of  the  down- 
ward hill ; 

We  past  from  light  to  dark.  On  the 
other  side 


Is  scoop’d  a cavern  and  a mountain 
hall, 

Which  none  have  fathom’d.  If  you 
go  far  in 

(The  country  people  rumor)  you  may 
hear 

The  moaning  of  the  woman  and  the 
child, 

Shut  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the 
rock. 

I too  have  heard  a sound  — perchance 
of  streams 

Running  far  on  within  its  inmost 
halls, 

The  home  of  darkness ; but  the  cav. 
ern-mouth, 

Half  overtrailed  with  a wanton  weed, 
Gives  birth  to  a brawling  brook,  that 
passing  lightly 

A down  a natural  stair  of  tangled  roots, 
Is  presently  received  in  a sweet  grave 
Of  eglantines,  a place  of  burial 
Far  lovelier  than  its  cradle ; for  un- 
seen, 

But  taken  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
place, 

It  makes  a constant  bubbling  melody 
That  drowns  the  nearer  echoes.  Low- 
er down 

Spreads  out  a little  lake,  that,  flood- 
ing, leaves 

Low  banks  of  yellow  sand  ; and  from 
the  woods 

That  belt  it  rise  three  dark,  tall  cy- 
presses, — 

Three  cypresses,  symbols  of  mortal 
woe, 

That  men  plant  over  graves. 

Hither  we  came, 
And  sitting  down  upon  the  golden 
moss, 

Held  converse  sweet  and  low — low 
converse  sweet, 

In  which  our  voices  bore  least  part. 
The  wind 

Told  a lovetale  beside  us,  how  he  woo’d 
The  waters,  and  the  waters  answering 
lisp’d 

To  kisses  of  the  wind,  that,  sick  with 
love, 

Fainted  at  intervals,  and  grew  again 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE 


657 


To  utterance  of  passion.  Ye  cannot 
shape 

Fancy  so  fair  as  is  this  memory. 

Methought  all  excellence  that  ever  was 

Had  drawn  herself  from  many  thou- 
sand years, 

And  all  the  separate  Edens  of  this 
earth, 

To  centre  in  this  place  and  time.  I 
listen’d, 

And  her  words  stole  with  most  pre- 
vailing sweetness 

Into  my  heart,  as  thronging  fancies 
come 

To  boys  and  girls  when  summer  days 
are  new, 

And  soul  and  heart  and  body  are  all 
at  ease  : 

What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all  ? 

It  was  so  happy  an  hour,  so  sweet  a 
place, 

And  I was  as  the  brother  of  her  blood, 

And  by  that  name  I moved  upon  her 
breath  ; 

Dear  name,  which  had  too  much  of 
nearness  in  it 

And  heralded  the  distance  of  this  time! 

At  first  her  voice  was  very  sweet  and 
low, 

As  if  she  were  afraid  of  utterance  ; 

But  in  the  onward  current  of  her 
speech, 

(As  echoes  of  the  hollow-banked 
brooks 

Are  fashion’d  by  the  channel  which 
they  keep), 

Her  words  did  of  their  meaning  bor- 
row sound, 

Her  cheek  did  catcli  the  color  of  her 
words. 

I heard  and  trembled,  yet  I could  but 
hear ; 

My  heart  paused  — my  raised  eyelids 
would  not  fall, 

But  still  I kept  my  eyes  upon  the  sky. 

I seem’d  the  only  part  of  Time  stood 
still, 

And  saw  the  motion  of  all  other  things ; 

While  her  words,  syllable  by  syllable, 

Like  water,  drop  by  drop,  upon  my  ear 

Fell ; and  I wish’d,  yet  wish’d  her  not 
to  speak ; 


But  she  spake  on,  for  I did  name  no 
wish, 

What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all 
Her  maiden  dignities  of  Hope  and 
Love  — 

“Perchance,”  she  said,  “return’d.” 
Even  then  the  stars 
Did  tremble  in  their  stations  as  I gazed; 
But  she  spake  on,  for  I did  name  no 
wish, 

No  wish  — no  hope.  Hope  was  not 
wholly  dead, 

But  breathing  hard  at  the  approach 
of  Death,  — 

Camilla,  my  Camilla,  who  was  mine 
No  longer  in  the  dearest  sense  of  mine  — 
For  all  the  secret  of  her  inmost  heart, 
And  all  the  maiden  empire  of  her 
mind, 

Lay  like  a map  before  me,  and  I saw 
There,  where  I hoped  myself  to  reign 
as  king, 

There,  where  that  day  I crown’d  my- 
self as  king, 

There  in  my  realm  and  even  on  my 
throne, 

Another  ! then  it  seem’d  as  tho’  a link 
Of  some  tight  chain  within  my  inmost 
frame 

Was  riven  in  twain : that  life  I heeded 
not 

Flow’d  from  me,  and  the  darkness  of 
the  grave, 

The  darkness  of  the  grave  and  utter 
night, 

Did  swallow  up  my  vision  ; at  her  feet, 
Even  the  feet  of  her  I loved,  I fell, 
Smit  with  exceeding  sorrow  unto 
Death. 

Then  had  the  earth  beneath  me 
yawing  cloven 

With  such  a sound  as  when  an  iceberg 
splits 

From  cope  to  base  — had  Heaven  from 
all  her  doors, 

With  all  her  golden  thresholds  clash- 
ing, roll’d 

Her  heaviest  thunder — I had  lain  as 
dead, 

Mute,  blind  and  motionless  as  then  I 
lay ; 


658 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Dead,  for  henceforth  there  was  no  life 
for  me  ! 

Mute,  for  henceforth  what  use  were 
words  to  me ! 

Blind,  for  the  day  was  as  the  night  to 
me  ! 

The  night  to  me  was  kinder  than  the 
day; 

The  night  in  pity  took  away  my  day, 
Because  my  grief  as  yet  was  newly 
born 

Of  eyes  too  weak  to  look  upon  the 
light ; 

And  thro’  the  hasty  notice  of  the  ear 
Frail  Life  was  startled  from  the  ten- 
der love 

Of  him  she  brooded  over.  Would  I 
had  lain 

Until  the  plaited  ivy-tress  had  wound 
Bound  my  worn  limbs,  and  the  wild 
brier  had  driven 

Its  knotted  thorns  thro’  my  unpain- 
ing brows, 

Leaning  its  roses  on  my  faded  eyes. 
The  wind  had  blown  above  me,  and 
the  rain 

Had  fall’n  upon  me,  and  the  gilded 
snake 

Had  nestled  in  this  bosom-throne  of 
Love, 

But  I had  been  at  rest  for  evermore. 

Long  time  enhancement  held  me. 
All  too  soon 

Life  (like  a wanton  too-officious  friend, 
Who  will  not  hear  denial,  vain  and 
rude 

With  proffer  of  unwish’d-for  services) 
Entering  all  the  avenues  of  sense 
Past  thro’  into  his  citadel,  the  brain, 
With  hated  warmth  of  apprehensive- 
ness. 

And  first  the  chillness  of  the  sprinkled 
brook 

Smote  on  my  brows,  and  then  I seem’d 
to  hear 

Its  murmur,  as  the  drowning  seaman 
hears, 

Who  with  his  head  below  the  surface 
dropt 

Listens  the  muffled  booming  indistinct 
Of  theconfused  floods, and  dimlyknows 


His  head  shall  rise  no  more : and  then 
came  in 

The  white  light  of  the  weary  moon 
above, 

Diffused  and  molten  into  flaky  cloud. 

Was  my  sight  drunk  that  it  did  shape 
to  me 

Him  who  should  own  that  name?  W ere 
it  not  well 

If  so  be  that  the  echo  of  that  name 

Ringing  within  the  fancy  had  updrawn 

A fashion  and  a phantasm  of  the 
form 

It  should  attach  to  ? Phantom ! — 
had  the  ghastliest 

That  ever  lusted  for  a body,  sucking 

The  foul  steam  of  the  grave  to  thicken 
by  it, 

There  in  the  shuddering  moonlight 
brought  its  face 

And  what  it  has  for  eyes  as  close  to 
mine 

As  he  did — better  that  than  his,  than 
he 

The  friend,  the  neighbor,  Lionel,  the 
beloved, 

The  loved,  the  lover,  the  happy  Lionel, 

The  low-voiced,  tender-spirited  Lionel, 

All  joy,  to  whom  my  agony  was  a joy. 

0 how  her  choice  did  leap  forth  from 
his  eyes  ! 

O how  her  love  did  clothe  itself  in 
smiles 

About  his  lips  ! and  — not  one  mo- 
ment’s grace  — 

Then  when  the  effect  weigh’d  seas 
upon  my  head 

To  come  my  way  ! to  twit  me  with  the 
cause ! 

Was  not  the  land  as  free  thro’  all 
her  ways 

To  him  as  me?  Was  not  his  wont  to 
walk 

Between  the  going  light  and  growing 
night  ? 

Had  I not  learnt  my  loss  before  he 
came  ? 

Could  that  be  more  because  he  came 
my  way  ? 

Why  should  he  not  come  my  way  if 
he  would  ? 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


659 


And  yet  to-night,  to-night  — when  all 
my  wealth 

Flash’d  from  me  in  a moment  and  I 
fell 

Beggar’d  for  ever  — why  should  he 
come  my  way 

Kobed  in  those  robes  of  light  I must 
not  wear, 

With  that  great  crown  of  beams  about 
his  brows  — 

Come  like  an  angel  to  a damned  soul, 
To  tell  him  of  the  bliss  he  had  with 
God  — 

Come  like  a careless  and  a greedy 
heir 

That  scarce  can  wait  the  reading  of 
the  will 

Before  he  takes  possession  1 Was 
mine  a mood 

To  be  invaded  rudely,  and  not  rather 
A sacred,  secret  unapproached  woe, 
Unspeakable  ? I was  shut  up  with 
Grief ; 

She  took  the  body  of  my  past  delight, 
Narded  and  swathed  and  balm’d  it 
for  herself, 

And  laid  it  in  a sepulchre  of  rock 
Never  to  rise  again.  I was  led  mute 
Into  her  temple  like  a sacrifice ; 

I was  the  High  Priest  in  her  holiest 
place, 

Not  to  be  loudly  broken  in  upon. 

Oh  friend,  thoughts  deep  and  heavy 
as  these  well-nigh 

O’erbore  the  limits  of  my  brain  : but  he 
Bent  o’er  me,  and  my  neck  his  arm 
upstay’d. 

I thought  it  was  an  adder’s  fold,  and 
once 

I strove  to  disengage  myself,  but 
fail’d, 

Being  so  feeble : she  bent  above  me, 
too ; 

Wan  was  her  cheek;  for  whatsoe’er 
of  blight 

Lives  in  the  dewy  touch  of  pity  had 
made 

The  red  rose  there  a pale  one  — and 
her  eyes  — 

I saw  the  moonlight  glitter  on  their 
tears  — 


And  some  few  drops  of  that  distress- 
ful rain 

Fell  on  my  face,  and  her  long  ringlets 
moved, 

Drooping  and  beaten  by  the  breeze, 
and  brush’d 

My  fallen  forehead  in  their  to  and 
fro, 

For  in  the  sudden  anguish  of  her  heart 

Loosed  from  their  simple  thrall  they 
had  flow’d  abroad, 

And  floated  on  and  parted  round  her 
neck, 

Mantling  her  form  halfway.  She, 
when  I woke, 

Something  she  ask’d,  I know  not  what, 
and  ask’d, 

Unanswer’d,  since  I spake  not ; for 
the  sound 

Of  that  dear  voice  so  musically  low. 

And  now  first  heard  with  any  sense 
of  pain, 

As  it  had  taken  life  away  before, 

Choked  all  the  syllables,  that  strove 
to  rise 

From  my  full  heart. 

The  blissful  lover,  too, 

From  his  great  hoard  of  happiness 
distill’d 

Some  drops  of  solace ; like  a vain 
rich  man, 

That,  having  always  prosper’d  in  the 
world, 

Folding  his  hands,  deals  comfortable 
words 

To  hearts  wounded  for  ever ; yet,  in 
truth, 

Fair  speech  was  his  and  delicate  of 
phrase, 

Falling  in  whispers  on  the  sense,  ad- 
dress’d 

More  to  the  inward  than  the  outward 
ear, 

As  rain  of  the  midsummer  midnight 
soft, 

Scarce-heard,  recalling  fragrance  and 
the  green 

Of  the  dead  spring : but  mine  was 
wholly  dead, 

No  bud,  no  leaf,  no  flower,  no  fruit 
for  me. 


660 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Yet  who  had  done,  or  who  had  suffer’d 
wrong  7 

And  why  was  I to  darken  their  pure 
love, 

If,  as  I found,  they  two  did  love  each 
other, 

Because  my  own  was  darken’d  7 Why 
was  I 

To  cross  between  their  happy  star  and 
them  7 

To  stand  a shadow  by  their  shining 
doors, 

And  vex  them  with  my  darkness  7 
Did  I love  her  7 

Ye  know  that  I did  love  her ; to  this 
present 

My  full-orb’d  love  has  waned  not. 
Did  I love  her, 

And  could  I look  upon  her  tearful 

eyes  7 

What  had  she  done  to  weep  7 Why 
should  she  weep  7 

0 innocent  of  spirit  — let  my  heart 

Break  rather  — whom  the  gentlest 

airs  of  Heaven 

Should  kiss  with  an  unwonted  gentle- 
ness. 

Her  love  did  murder  mine  7 What 
then  7 She  deem’d 

1 wore  a brother’s  mind : she  call’d 

me  brother : 

She  told  me  all  her  love  : she  shall 
not  weep. 

The  brightness  of  a burning  thought, 
awhile 

In  battle  with  the  glooms  of  my  dark 
will, 

Moonlike  emerged,  and  to  itself  lit  up 

There  on  the  depth  of  an  unfathom’d 
woe 

Reflex  of  action.  Starting  up  at  once, 

As  from  a dismal  dream  of  my  own 
death, 

I,  for  I loved  her,  lost  my  love  in 
Love ; 

I,  for  I loved  her,  graspt  the  hand  she 
lov’d, 

And  laid  it  in  her  own,  and  sent  my 
cry 

Thro’  the  blank  night  to  Him  who 
loving  made 


The  happy  and  the  unhappy  love, 
that  He 

Would  hold  the  hand  of  blessing  over 
them, 

Lionel,  the  happy,  and  her,  and  her, 
his  bride ! 

Let  them  so  love  that  men  and  boys 
may  say, 

“ Lo  ! how  they  love  each  other  ! ” till 
their  love 

Shall  ripen  to  a proverb,  unto  all 

Known,  when  their  faces  are  forgot  in 
the  land  — 

One  golden  dream  of  love,  from  which 
may  death 

Awake  them  with  heaven’s  music  in  a 
life 

More  living  to  some  happier  happi- 
ness, 

Swallowing  its  precedent  in  victory. 

And  as  for  me,  Camilla,  as  for  me, — * 

The  dew  of  tears  is  an  unwholesome 
dew, 

They  will  but  sicken  the  sick  plant 
the  more. 

Deem  that  I love  thee  but  as  brothers 
do, 

So  shalt  thou  love  me  still  as  sisters 
do ; 

Or  if  thou  dream  aught  farther, 
dream  but  how 

I could  have  loved  thee,  had  there 
been  none  else 

To  love  as  lovers,  loved  again  by 
thee. 

Or  this,  or  somewhat  like  to  this,  I 
spake, 

When  I beheld  her  weep  so  rue- 
fully ; 

For  sure  my  love  should  ne’er  indue 
the  front 

And  mask  of  Hate,  who  lives  on 
others’  moans. 

Shall  Love  pledge  Hatred  in  her  bit- 
ter draughts, 

And  batten  on  her  poisons  7 Love 
forbid ! 

Love  passeth  not  the  threshold  of  cold 
Hate, 

And  Hate  is  strange  beneath  the  roof 
of  Love. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


661 


O Love,  if  thou  be’st  Love,  dry  up 
these  tears 

Shed  for  the  love  of  Love  ; for  tho’ 
mine  image, 

The  subject  of  thy  power,  be  cold  in 
her, 

Yet,  like  cold  snow,  it  melteth  in  the 
source 

Of  these  sad  tears,  and  feeds  their 
downward  flow. 

So  Love,  arraign’d  to  judgment  and 
to  death, 

Received  unto  himself  a part  of 
blame, 

Being  guiltless,  as  an  innocent  pri- 
soner, 

Who,  when  the  woful  sentence  hath 
been  past. 

And  all  the  clearness  of  his  fame  hath 
gone 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  curse  of 
man, 

First  falls  asleep  in  swoon,  wherefrom 
awaked, 

And  looking  round  upon  his  tearful 
friends, 

Forthwith  and  in  his  agony  con- 
ceives 

A shameful  sense  as  of  a cleaving 
crime  — 

For  whence  without  some  guilt  should 
such  grief  be  ? 

So  died  that  hour,  and  fell  into  the 
abysm 

Of  forms  outworn,  but  not  to  me  out- 
worn, 

Who  never  hail’d  another — was  there 
one  ? 

There  might  be  one  — one  other,  worth 
the  life 

That  made  it  sensible.  So  that  hour 
died 

Like  odor  rapt  into  the  winged 
wind 

Borne  into  alien  lands  and  far  away. 

There  be  some  hearts  so  airily  built, 
that  they, 

They  — when  their  love  is  wreck’d  — 
if  Love  can  wreck  — 

On  that  sharp  ridge  of  utmost  doom 
ride  highly 


Above  the  perilous  seas  of  Change 
and  Chance ; 

Nay,  more,  hold  out  the  lights  of 
cheerfulness ; 

As  the  tall  ship,  that  many  a dreary 
year 

Knit  to  some  dismal  sandbank  far  at 
sea, 

All  thro’  the  livelong  hours  of  utter 
dark, 

Showers  slanting  light  upon  the  dolor- 
ous wave. 

Forme  — what  light,  what  gleam  on 
those  black  ways 

Where  Love  could  walk  with  banish’d 
Hope  no  more  ? 

It  was  ill-done  to  part  you,  Sisters 
fair ; 

Love’s  arms  were  wreath’d  about  the 
neck  of  Hope, 

And  Hope  kiss’d  Love,  and  Love 
drew  in  her  breath 

In  that  close  kiss,  and  drank  her 
whisper’d  tales. 

They  said  that  Love  would  die  when 
Hope  was  gone, 

And  Love  mourn’d  long,  and  sorrow’d 
after  Hope ; 

At  last  she  sought  out  Memory,  and 
they  trod 

The  same  old  paths  where  Love  had 
walk’d  with  Hope, 

And  Memory  fed  the  soul  of  Love 
with  tears. 


II. 

From  that  time  forth  I would  not  see 
her  more; 

But  many  weary  moons  I lived 
alone  — 

Alone,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
forest. 

Sometimes  upon  the  hills  beside  the 
sea 

All  day  I watch’d  the  floating  isles  of 
shade, 

And  sometimes  on  the  shore,  upon  the 
sands 

Insensibly  I drew  her  name,  until 

The  meaning  of  the  letters  shot  into 


662 


THE  LOVE HS  TALE. 


My  brain ; anon  the  wanton  billow 
wash’d 

Them  over,  till  they  faded  like  my 
love. 

The  hollow  caverns  heard  me  — the 
black  brooks 

Of  the  midforest  heard  me  — the  soft 
winds, 

Laden  with  thistledown  and  seeds  of 
flowers, 

Paused  in  their  course  to  hear  me,  for 
my  voice 

Was  all  of  thee : the  merry  linnet 
knew  me, 

The  squirrel  knew  me,  and  the  dragon- 

fly 

Shot  by  me  like  a flash  of  purple  fire. 

The  rough  brier  tore  my  bleeding 
palms ; the  hemlock, 

Brow-high,  did  strike  my  forehead  as 
I past ; 

Yet  trod  I not  the  wildflower  in  my 
path, 

Nor  bruised  the  wildbird’s  egg. 

Was  this  the  end  ? 

Why  grew  we  then  together  in  one 
plot  1 

Why  fed  we  from  one  fountain  ? drew 
one  sun  ? 

Why  were  our  mothers’  branches  of 
one  stem  ? 

Why  were  we  one  in  all  things,  save 
in  that 

Where  to  have  been  one  had  been  the 
cope  and  crown 

Of  all  I hoped  and  fear’d  % — if  that 
same  nearness 

Were  father  to  this  distance,  and  that 
one 

Vauntcourier  to  the  double  ? if  Affec- 
tion 

Living  slew  Love,  and  Sympathy 
hew’d  out 

The  bosom-sepulchre  of  Sympathy  'i 

Chiefly  I sought  the  cavern  and  the 
hill 

Where  last  we  roam’d  together,  for  the 
sound 

Of  the  loud  stream  was  pleasant,  and 
the  wind 


Came  wooingly  with  woodbine  smells. 
Sometimes 

All  day  I sat  within  the  cavern-mouth, 

Fixing  my  eyes  on  those  three  cypress- 
cones 

That  spired  above  the  wood ; and  with 
mad  hand 

Tearing  the  bright  leaves  of  the  ivy- 
screen, 

I cast  them  in  the  noisy  brook  be- 
neath, 

And  watch’d  them  till  they  vanish’d 
from  my  sight 

Beneath  the  bower  of  wreathed  eglan- 
tines : 

And  all  the  fragments  of  the  living 
rock 

(Huge  blocks,  which  some  old  trem- 
bling of  the  world 

Had  loosen’d  from  the  mountain,  till 
they  fell 

Half-digging  their  own  graves)  these 
in  my  agony 

Did  I make  bare  of  all  the  golden 
moss, 

Wherewith  the  dashing  runnel  in  the 
spring 

Had  liveried  them  all  over.  In  my 
brain 

The  spirit  seem’d  to  flag  from  thought 
to  thought, 

As  moonlight  wandering  thro’  a mist : 
my  blood 

Crept  like  marsh  drains  thro’  all  my 
languid  limbs  ; 

The  motions  of  my  heart  seem’d  far 
within  me, 

Unfrequent,  low,  as  tho’  it  told  its 
pulses ; 

And  yet  it  shook  me,  that  my  frame 
would  shudder, 

As  if  ’twere  drawn  asunder  by  the  rack. 

But  over  the  deep  graves  of  Hope  and 
Fear, 

And  all  the  broken  palaces  of  the 
Past, 

Brooded  one  master-passion  evermore, 

Like  to  a low-hung  and  a fiery  sky 

Above  some  fair  metropolis,  earth- 
shock’d,  — 

Hung  round  with  ragged  rims  and 
burning  folds,  — 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


663 


Embattling  all  with  wild  and  woful 
hues, 

Great  hills  of  ruins,  and  collapsed 
masses 

Of  thundershaken  columns  indistinct, 
And  fused  together  in  the  tyrannous 
light  — 

Ruins,  the  ruin  of  all  my  life  and  me  ! 

Sometimes  I thought  Camilla  was 
no  more, 

Some  one  had  told  me  she  was  dead, 
and  ask’d 

If  I would  see  her  burial : then  I seem’d 
To  rise,  and  through  the  forest-shadow 
borne 

With  more  than  mortal  swiftness,  I 
ran  down 

The  steepy  sea-bank,  till  I came  upon 
The  rear  of  a procession,  curving  round 
The  silver-sheeted  bay:  in  front  of 
which 

Six  stately  virgins,  all  in  white,  upbear 
A broad  earth-sweeping  pall  of  whitest 
lawn, 

Wreathed  round  the  bier  with  gar- 
lands : in  the  distance, 

From  out  the  yellow  woods  upon  the 
hill 

Look’d  forth  the  summit  and  the  pin- 
nacles 

Of  a gray  steeple  — thence  at  intervals 
A low  bell  tolling.  All  the  pageantry, 
Save  those  six  virgins  which  upheld 
the  bier, 

Were  stoled  from  head  to  foot  in  flow- 
ing black ; 

One  walk’d  abreast  with  me,  and  veil’d 
his  brow, 

And  he  was  loud  in  weeping  and  in 
praise 

Of  her  we  follow’d : a strong  sympathy 
Shook  all  my  soul:  I flung  myself 
upon  him 

In  tears  and  cries : I told  him  all  my 
love, 

How  I had  loved  her  from  the  first ; 
whereat 

He  shrank  and  howl’d,  and  from  his 
brow  drew  back 

His  hand  to  push  me  from  him  ; and 
the  face. 


The  very  face  and  form  of  Lionel 
Flash’d  thro’  my  eyes  into  my  inner- 
most brain, 

And  at  his  feet  I seem’d  to  faint  and 
fall, 

To  fall  and  die  away.  I could  not  rise 
Albeit  I strove  to  follow.  They  past 
on, 

The  lordly  Phantasms  ! in  their  float- 
ing folds 

They  past  and  were  no  more : but  I 
had  fallen 

Prone  by  the  dashing  runnel  on  the 
grass. 

Alway  the  inaudible  invisible 
thought, 

Artificer  and  subject,  lord  and  slave, 
Shaped  by  the  audible  and  visible, 
Moulded  the  audible  and  visible; 

All  crisped  sounds  of  wave  and  leaf 
and  wind, 

Flatter’d  the  fancy  of  my  fading  brain  ; 
The  cloud-pavilion’d  element,  the 
wood, 

The  mountain,  the  three  cypresses,  the 
cave, 

Storm,  sunset,  glows  and  glories  of 
the  moon 

Below  black  firs,  when  silent-creeping 
winds 

Laid  the  long  night  in  silver  streaks 
and  bars, 

Were  wrought  into  the  tissue  of  my 
dream  : 

The  moanings  in  the  forest,  the  loud 
brook, 

Cries  of  the  partridge  like  a rusty  key 
Turn’d  in  a lock,  owl-whoop  and  dor- 
hawk-whirr 

Awoke  me  not,  but  were  a part  of 
sleep, 

And  voicesin  thedistance  calling  to  me 
And  in  my  vision  bidding  me  dream  on, 
Like  sounds  without  the  twilight  realm 
of  dreams, 

Which  wander  round  the  bases  of  the 
hills, 

And  murmur  at  the  low-dropt  eaves 
of  sleep, 

Half-entering  the  portals.  Oftentimes 
The  vision  had  fair  prelude,  in  the  end 


664 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Opening  on  darkness,  stately  vesti- 
bules 

To  caves  and  shows  of  Death  : wheth- 
er the  mind, 

With  some  revenge — even  to  itself 
unknown,  — 

Made  strange  division  of  its  suffering 
With  her,  whom  to  have  suffering 
view’d  had  been 

Extremest  pain ; or  that  the  clear-eyed 
Spirit, 

Being  blunted  in  the  Present,  grew  at 
length 

Prophetical  and  prescient  of  whate’er 
The  Future  had  in  store : or  that 
which  most 

Enchains  belief,  the  sorrow  of  my 
spirit 

Was  of  so  wide  a compass  it  took  in 
All  I had  loved,  and  my  dull  agony, 
Ideally  to  her  transferr’d,  became 
Anguish  intolerable. 

The  day  waned ; 
Alone  I sat  with  her : about  my 
brow 

Her  warm  breath  floated  in  the  utter- 
ance 

Of  silver-chorded  tones : her  lips 

were  sunder’d 

With  smiles  of  tranquil  bliss,  which 
broke  in  light 

Like  morning  from  her  eyes  — her 
eloquent  eyes, 

(As  I have  seen  them  many  a hundred 
times) 

Fill’d  all  with  pure  clear  fire,  thro’ 
mine  down  rain’d 

Their  spirit-searching  splendors.  As 
a vision 

Unto  a haggard  prisoner,  iron-stay’d 
In  damp  and  dismal  dungeons  under- 
ground, 

Confined  on  points  of  faith,  when 
strength  is  shock’d 
With  torment,  and  expectancy  of 
worse 

Upon  the  morrow,  thro’  the  ragged 
walls, 

All  unawares  before  his  half-shut  eyes? 
Comes  in  upon  him  in  the  dead  of 
night, 


And  with  the  excess  of  sweetness  and 
of  awe, 

Makes  the  heart  tremble,  and  the 
sight  run  over 

Upon  his  steely  gyves  ; so  those  fair 
eyes 

Shone  on  my  darkness,  forms  which 
ever  stood 

Within  the  magic  cirque  of  memory, 
Invisible  but  deathless,  waiting  still 
The  edict  of  the  will  to  reassume 
The  semblance  of  those  rare  realities 
Of  which  they  were  the  mirrors.  Now 
the  light 

Which  was  their  life,  burst  through 
the  cloud  of  thought 
Keen,  irrepressible. 

It  was  a room 

Within  the  summer-house  of  which  I 
spake, 

Hung  round  with  paintings  of  the  sea, 
and  one 

A vessel  in  mid-ocean,  her  heaved 
prow 

Clambering,  the  mast  bent  and  the 
ravin  wind 

In  her  sail  roaring.  From  the  outer 
day, 

Betwixt  the  close-set  ivies  came  a 
broad 

And  solid  beam  of  isolated  light, 
Crowded  with  driving  atomies,  and 
fell 

Slanting  upon  that  picture,  from  prime 
youth 

Well-known  well-loved.  She  drew  it 
long  ago 

Forthgazing  on  the  waste  and  open 
sea, 

One  morning  when  the  upblown  bil- 
low ran 

Shoreward  beneath  red  clouds,  and  I 
had  pour’d 

Into  the  shadowing  pencil’s  naked 
forms 

Color  and  life  : it  was  a bond  and  seal 
Of  friendship,  spoken  of  with  tearful 
smiles  ; 

A monument  of  childhood  and  of 
love  ; 

The  poesy  of  childhood ; my  lost  love 


THE  LOVE HS  TALE. 


665 


Symbol’d  in  storm.  We  gazed  on  it 
together 

In  mute  and  glad  remembrance,  and 
each  heart 

Grew  closer  to  the  other,  and  the  eye 

Was  riveted  and  charm-bound,  gazing 
like 

The  Indian  on  a still-eyed  snake,  low- 
couch’d  — 

A beauty  which  is  death ; when  all  at 
once 

That  painted  vessel,  as  with  inner 
life, 

Began  to  heave  upon  that  painted 
sea ; 

An  earthquake,  my  loud  heart-beats, 
made  the  ground 

Reel  under  us,  and  all  at  once,  soul, 
life 

And  breath  and  motion,  past  and 
flow’d  away 

To  those  unreal  billows : round  and 
round 

A whirlwind  caught  and  bore  us ; 
mighty  gyres 

Rapid  and  vast,  of  hissing  spray  wind- 
driven 

Far  thro’  the  dizzy  dark.  Aloud  she 
shriek’d ; 

My  heart  was  cloven  with  pain;  I 
wound  my  arms 

About  her:  we  whirl’d  giddily;  the 
wind 

Sung ; but  I clasp’d  her  without  fear : 
her  weight 

Shrank  in  my  grasp,  and  over  my  dim 
eyes, 

And  parted  lips  which  drank  her 
breath,  down-hung 

The  jaws  of  Death : I,  groaning,  from 
me  flung 

Her  empty  phantom:  all  the  sway  and 
whirl 

Of  the  storm  dropt  to  windless  calm, 
and  I 

Down  welter’d  thro’  the  dark  ever  and 
ever. 

III. 

I came  one  day  and  sat  among  the 
stones 


Strewn  in  the  entry  of  the  moaning 
cave ; 

A morning  air,  sweet  after  rain,  ran 
over 

The  rippling  levels  of  the  lake,  and 
blew 

Coolness  and  moisture  and  all  smells 
of  bud 

And  foliage  from  the  dark  and  drip- 
ping woods 

Upon  my  fever’d  brows  that  shook 
and  throbb’d 

From  temple  unto  temple.  To  what 
height 

The  day  had  grown  I know  not.  Then 
came  on  me 

The  hollow  tolling  of  the  bell,  and  all 

The  vision  of  the  bier.  As  heretofore 

I walk’d  behind  with  one  who  veil’d 
his  brow. 

Methought  by  slow  degrees  the  sullen 
bell 

Toll’d  quicker,  and  the  breakers  on  the 
shore 

Sloped  into  louder  surf : those  that 
went  with  me, 

And  those  that  held  the  bier  before 
my  face, 

Moved  with  one  spirit  round  about 
the  bay, 

Trod  swifter  steps  ; and  while  I walk’d 
with  these 

In  marvel  at  that  gradual  change,  I 
thought 

Four  bells  instead  of  one  began  to 
ring, 

Four  merry  bells,  four  merry  marriage- 
bells, 

In  clanging  cadence  jangling  peal  on 
peal  — 

A long  loud  clash  of  rapid  marriage- 
bells. 

Then  those  who  led  the  van,  and  those 
in  rear, 

Rush’d  into  dance,  and  like  wild  Bac- 
chanals 

Fled  onward  to  the  steeple  in  the 
woods : 

I,  too,  was  borne  along  and  felt  the 
blast 

Beat  on  mf  heated  eyelids  : all  at 
once 


666 


THE  LOVE HS  TALE. 


The  front  rank  made  a sudden  halt ; 
the  bells 

Lapsed  into  frightful  stillness ; the 
surge  fell 

From  thunder  into  whispers ; those  six 
maids 

With  shrieks  and  ringing  laughter  on 
the  sand 

Threw  down  the  bier ; the  woods  upon 
the  hill 

Waved  wdth  a sudden  gust  that  sweep- 
ing down 

Took  the  edges  of  the  pall,  and  blew 
it  far 

Until  it  hung,  a little  silver  cloud 

Over  the  sounding  seas  : I turn’d : my 
heart 

Shrank  in  me,  like  a snowflake  in  the 
hand, 

Waiting  to  see  the  settled  countenance 

Of  her  I loved,  adorn’d  with  fading 
flowers. 

But  she  from  out  her  death-like 
chrysalis, 

She  from  her  bier,  as  into  fresher 
life, 

My  sister,  and  my  cousin,  and  my 
love, 

Leapt  lightly  clad  in  bridal  white  — 
her  hair 

Studded  with  one  rich  Provence  rose 
— a light 

Of  smiling  welcome  round  her  lips  — 
her  eyes 

And  cheeks  as  bright  as  when  she 
climb’d  the  hill. 

One  hand  she  reach’d  to  those  that 
came  behind, 

And  while  I mused  nor  yet  endured 
to  take 

So  rich  a prize,  the  man  who  stood 
with  me 

Stept  gaily  forward,  throwing  down 
his  robes, 

And  claspt  her  hand  in  his  : again  the 
bells 

Jangled  and  clang’d : again  the  stormy 
surf 

Crash’d  in  the  shingle : and  the  whirl- 
ing rout 

Led  by  those  two  rush’d*  into  dance, 
and  fled 


Wind-footed  to  the  steeple  in  the 
woods, 

Till  they  were  swallow’d  in  the  leafy 
bowers, 

And  I stood  sole  beside  the  vacant 
bier. 

There,  there,  my  latest  vision  — then 
the  e\ent! 

IV. 

THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER.1 

( Another  speaks.) 

He  flies  the  event : he  leaves  the  event 
to  me : 

Poor  Julian — how  he  rush’d  away; 
the  bells, 

Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear 
and  heart  — 

But  cast  a parting  glance  at  me,  you 
saw, 

As  who  should  say  “ Continue.”  Well 
he  had 

One  golden  hour  — of  triumph  shall  I 
say  ? 

Solace  at  least  — before  he  left  his 
home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that 
hour  of  his ! 

He  moved  thro’  all  of  it  majesti- 
cally — 

Restrain’d  himself  quite  to  the  close  — 
but  now  — 

Whether  they  were  his  lady’s  mar- 
riage bells, 

Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 

I never  ask’d  : but  Lionel  and  the  girl 

Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came 
again 

Back  to  his  mother’s  house  among  the 
pines. 

But  these,  their  gloom,  the  mountains 
and  the  Bay, 

The  whole  land  weigh’d  him  down  as 
iEtna  does 

The  Giant  of  Mythology : he  wrould 
go, 

1 This  poem  is  founded  upon  a story  in 

Boccaccio.  See  Introduction,  p.  647. 


“ He  saw 

His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her  face.” 

Page  667. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


667 


Would  leave  the  land  for  ever,  and 
had  gone 

Surely,  but  for  a whisper,  “ Go  not 
yet,” 

Some  warning  — sent  divinely  — as  it 
seem’d 

By  that  which  follow’d  — but  of  this 
I deem 

As  of  the  visions  that  he  told  — the 
event 

Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after 
life, 

And  partly  made  them  — tho’  he  knew 
it  not. 

And  thus  he  stay’d  and  would  not 
look  at  her  — 

No  not  for  months : but,  when  the 
eleventh  moon 

After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover’s  Bay, 

Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell, 
and  said, 

Would  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life, 
but  found  — 

All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to 
him  — 

A crueller  reason  than  a crazy  ear, 

For  that  low  knell  tolling  his  lady 
dead  — 

Dead  — and  had  lain  three  days  with- 
out a pulse : 

All  that  look’d  on  her  had  pronounced 
her  dead. 

And  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian’s 
land 

They  never  nail  a dumb  head  up  in 
elm), 

Bore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of 
heaven, 

And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own 
kin. 

What  did  ho  then  ? not  die : he  is 
here  and  hale  — 

Not  plunge  headforemost  from  the 
mountain  there, 

And  leave  the  name  of  Lover’s  Leap  : 
not  he : 

He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper 
now, 

Thought  that  he  knew  it.  “ This,  I 
stay’d  for  this ; 


0 love,  I have  not  seen  you  for  so 

long. 

Now,  now,  will  I go  down  into  the 
grave, 

1 will  be  all  alone  with  all  I love, 

And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.  She  is  his 

no  more : 

The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead.” 

The  fancy  stirr’d  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the 
dim  vault, 

And,  making  there  a sudden  light,  be- 
held 

All  round  about  him  that  which  all 
will  be. 

The  light  was  but  a flash,  and  went 
again. 

Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her 
face ; 

Her  breast  as  in  a shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which 
the  moon 

Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of 
her 

Drown’d  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of 
the  vault. 

“ It  was  my  wish,”  he  said,  “ to  pass, 
to  sleep, 

To  rest,  to  be  with  her  — till  the  great 
day 

Peal’d  on  us  with  that  music  which 
rights  all, 

And  raised  us  hand  in  hand.”  And 
kneeling  there 

Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once 
was  man, 

Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 
hearts, 

Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a love 
as  mine  — 

Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 
her  — 

He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss’d  her  more  than  once,  till 
helpless  death 

And  silence  made  him  bold  — nay,  but 
I wrong  him, 


668 


THE  LOVE HS  TALE. 


He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in 
death ; 

But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  her 
heart, 

“ O,  you  warm  heart/’  he  moan’d, 
“ not  even  death 

Can  chill  you  all  at  once  : ” then  start- 
ing, thought 

His  dreams  had  come  again.  “ Do  I 
wake  or  sleep  ? 

Or  am  I made  immortal,  or  my  love 

Mortal  once  more  ? ” It  beat  — the 
heart  — it  beat : 

Faint  — but  it  beat : at  which  his  own 
began 

To  pulse  with  such  a vehemence  that 
it  drown’d 

The  feebler  motion  underneath  his 
hand. 

But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  sat- 
isfied, 

He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepul- 
chre, 

And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the 
cloak 

He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and 
now 

Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 

Holding  his  golden  burthen  in  his 
arms, 

So  bore  her  thro’  the  solitary  land 

Back  to  the  mother’s  house  where  she 
was  born. 

There  the  good  mother’s  kindly  min- 
istering, 

With  half  a night’s  appliances,  recall’d 

Her  fluttering  life : she  rais’d  an  eye 
that  ask’d 

“ Where  ? ” till  the  things  familiar  to 
her  youth 

Had  made  a silent  answer : then  she 
spoke 

“ Here  ! and  how  came  I here  ? ” and 
learning  it 

(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I 
think) 

At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 

“ Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give 
me  back  : 

Send ! bid  him  come ; ” but  Lionel 
wras  away  — 


Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanish’d,  none 
knew  where. 

“He  casts  me  out,”  she  wept,  “ and 
goes  ” — a wail 

That  seeming  something,  yet  was  noth- 
ing, born 

Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter’d 
nerve, 

Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  re- 
proof 

At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 

Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had 
return’d, 

“ Oh  yes,  and  you,”  she  said,  “ and 
none  but  you  ? 

For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love 
again, 

And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell 
him  of  it, 

And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he 
returns.” 

“ Stay  then  a little,”  answer’d  Julian, 
“ here, 

And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to 
yourself  ; 

And  I will  do  your  will.  I may  not 
stay, 

No,  not  an  hour;  but  send  me  notice 
of  him 

When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I re- 
turn, 

And  I will  make  a solemn  offering  of 
you 

To  him  you  love.”  And  faintly  she 
replied, 

“ And  I will  do  your  will,  and  none 
shall  know.” 

Not  know  ? with  such  a secret  to  be 
known. 

But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved 
them  both, 

And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves 
of  both  ; 

Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any 
way, 

And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  soli- 
tary : 

And  then  he  rode  away ; but  after  this, 

An  hour  or  two,  Camilla’s  travail  came 

Upon  her,  and  that  day  a boy  was  born, 

Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 


THE  LO  FEE'S  TALE. 


669 


And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 
And  pausing  at  a hostel  in  a marsh, 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  : myself 
was  then 

Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to 
rest  an  hour ; 

And  sitting  down  to  such  a base  repast, 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 
I heard  a groaning  overhead,  and 
climb’d 

The  moulder’d  stairs  (for  everything 
was  vile) 

And  in  a loft,  with  none  to  wait  on 
him, 

Found,  as  it  seem’d,  a skeleton  alone, 
Raving  of  dead  men’s  dust  and  beat- 
ing hearts. 

A dismal  hostel  in  a dismal  land, 

A flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush  ! 
But  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of 
him 

Sprang  up  a friendship  that  may  help 
us  yet. 

For  while  we  roam’d  along  the  dreary 
coast, 

And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by 
piece 

I learnt  the  dearier  story  of  his  life  ; 
And,  tho’  he  loved  and  honor’d  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady 
made 

Dwelt  in  his  fancy  : did  he  know  her 
worth, 

Her  beauty  even  ? should  he  not  be 
taught, 

Ev’n  by  the  price  that  others  setupon  it, 
The  value  of  that  jewel  lie  had  to 
guard  'i 

Suddenly  came  her  notice  and  we 
past, 

I with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind, 
the  soul : 

That  makes  the  sequel  pure ; tho’ 
some  of  us 

Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  I:  and  yet  I say  the  bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however 
sweet, 


But  if  my  neighbor  whistle  answers 
him  — 

What  matter  1 there  are  others  in  the 
wood. 

Yet  when  I saw  her  (and  I thought  him 
crazed, 

Tho’  not  with  such  a craziness  as  needs 

A cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes 
of  hers  — 

Oh ! such  dark  eyes  ! and  not  her  eyes 
alone, 

But  all  from  these  to  where  she  touch’d 
on  earth, 

For  such  a craziness  as  Julian’s  look’d 

No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 

To  greet  us,  her  young  hero  in  her 
arms ! 

“ Kiss  him,”  she  said.  “ You  gave  me 
life  again. 

He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 

His  other  father  you ! Kiss  him,  and 
then 

F orgive  him,  if  his  name  be  Julian  too.” 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart ! 
his  own 

Sent  such  a flame  into  his  face,  I 
knew 

Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him 
there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to 
go, 

And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying 
him 

By  that  great  love  they  both  had 
borne  the  dead, 

To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with 
him 

Before  he  left  the  land  for  evermore  ; 

And  then  to  friends  — they  were  not 
many  — who  lived 

Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land 
of  his, 

And  bade  them  to  a banquet  of  fare- 
wells. 

And  Julian  made  a solemn  feast : I 
never 

Sat  at  a costlier  ; for  all  round  his  hall 


670 


THE  LOVER1  S TALE. 


From  column  on  to  column,  as  in  a 
wood, 

Not  such  as  here  — an  equatorial  one, 
Great  garlands  swung  and  blossom’d ; 
and  beneath, 

Heirlooms,  and  ancient  miracles  of 
Art, 

Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that,  Heaven 
knows  when, 

Had  suck’d  the  fire  of  some  forgotten 
sun, 

And  kept  it  thro’  a hundred  years  of 
gloom, 

Yet  glowing  in  a heart  of  ruby  — cups 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round 
in  gold  — 

Others  of  glass  as  costly  — some  with 
gems 

Movable  and  resettable  at  will, 

And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value  — 
Ah  heavens ! 

Why  need  I tell  you  all  ? — suffice  to 
say 

That  whatsoever  such  a house  as  his, 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
Was  brought  before  the  guest : and 
they,  the  guests, 

Wonder’d  at  some  strange  light  in 
Julian’s  eyes 

(I  told  you  that  he  had  his  golden 
hour), 

And  such  a feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seem’d 
To  such  a time,  to  Lionel’s  loss  and  his 
And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a 
land 

He  never  would  revisit,  such  a feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev’n 
than  rich, 

But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the 
hall 

Two  great  funereal  curtains,  looping 
down, 

Parted  a little  ere  they  met  the  floor, 
About  a picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the 
frame. 

And  just  above  the  parting  was  a 
lamp : 

So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with 
night 


Seem’d  stepping  out  of  darkness  with 
a smile. 

Well  then — our  solemn  feast — we 
ate  and  drank, 

And  might  — the  wines  being  of  such 
nobleness  — 

Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian’s  eyes, 

And  something  weird  and  wild  about 
it  all : 

What  was  it  ? for  our  lover  seldom 
spoke, 

Scarce  touch’d  the  meats ; but  ever 
and  anon 

A priceless  goblet  with  a priceless  wine 

Arising,  show’d  he  drank  beyond  his 
use  ; 

And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end, 
he  said: 

“ There  is  a custom  in  the  Orient, 
friends  — 

I read  of  it  in  Persia  — when  a man 

Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him, 
he  brings 

And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  ac- 
counts 

Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 

Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 

This  custom ” 

Pausing  here  a moment,  all 

The  guests  broke  in  upon  him  with 
meeting  hands 

And  cries  about  the  banquet — “ Beau- 
tiful ! 

Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a 
feast  1 ” 

The  lover  answer’d,  “ There  is  more 
than  one 

Here  sitting  who  desires  it.  Laud  me 
not 

Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the 
close. 

This  custom  steps  yet  further  when 
the  guest 

Is  loved  and  honor’d  to  the  uttermost. 

For  after  he  hath  shown  him  gems  or 
gold, 

He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rich 
guise 


THE  LOVE HS  TALE. 


671 


That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as 
these, 

The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his 
heart  — 

‘ 0 my  heart’s  lord,  would  I could 
show  you,’  he  says, 

‘ Ev’n  my  heart  too.’  And  I propose 
to-night 

To  show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my 
heart, 

And  my  heart  too. 

“ But  solve  me  first  a doubt. 

I knew  a man,  nor  many  years  ago ; 

He  had  a faithful  servant,  one  who 
loved 

His  master  more  than  all  on  earth 
beside. 

He  falling  sick,  and  seeming  close  on 
death, 

His  master  would  not  wait  until  he 
died, 

But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from 
the  door, 

And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to 
die. 

I knew  another,  not  so  long  ago, 

Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took 
him  home, 

And  fed,  and  cherish’d  him,  and  saved 
his  life. 

I ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master 
claim 

His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to  ? 
him 

Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved 
his  life  1 ” 

This  question,  so  flung  down  before 
the  guests, 

And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at 
length 

When  some  were  doubtful  how  the 
law  would  hold, 

Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 

To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of 
phrase. 

And  he  beginning  languidly  — his  loss 

Weigh’d  on  him  yet  — but  warming 
as  he  went, 


Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass 
it  by, 

Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived, 

By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  grateful- 
ness, 

The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was 
due 

All  to  the  saver  — adding,  with  a 
smile, 

The  first  for  many  weeks  — a semi- 
smile 

As  at  a strong  conclusion  — “body 
and  soul 

And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his 
will.” 

Then  Julian  made  a secret  sign  to 
me 

To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them 
all. 

And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she 
came, 

And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  her- 
self 

Is  lovelier  than  all  others  — on  her 
head 

A diamond  circlet,  and  from  under 
this 

A veil,  that  seemed  no  more  than 
gilded  air, 

Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern 
gauze 

With  seeds  of  gold  — so,  with  that 
grace  of  hers, 

Slow-moving  as  a wave  against  the 
wind, 

That  flings  a mist  behind  it  in  the 
sun  — 

And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty 
babe, 

The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was 
crown’d 

With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself  — 

And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the 
jewels 

Of  many  generations  of  his  house 

Sparkled  and  flash’d,  for  he  had 
decked  them  out 

As  for  a solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 

So  she  came  in : — I am  long  in  telling 
it, 

I never  yet  beheld  a thing  so  strange, 


672 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE . 


Sad,  sweet,  and  strange  together  — 
floated  in  — 

While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amaze- 
ment rose  — 

And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle 
hall, 

Before  the  board,  there  paused  and 
stood,  her  breast 

Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her 
feet, 

Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 

But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights 
nor  feast 

Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men ; 
who  cared 

Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 

And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and 
jewell’d  world 

About  him,  look’d,  as  he  is  like  to 
prove, 

When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he 
saw. 

“ My  guests,”  said  Julian  : “ you 
are  honor’d  now 

Ev’n  to  the  uttermost ; in  her  behold 

Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beau- 
tiful, 

Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to 
me.” 

Then  waving  us  a sign  to  seat  our- 
selves, 

Led  his  dear  lady  to  a chair  of  state. 

And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 

Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 

Thrice  in  a second,  felt  him  tremble 
too, 

And  heard  him  muttering,  “ So  like, 
so  like ; 

She  never  had  a sister.  I knew  none. 

Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  — O God, 
so  like  ! ” 

And  then  he  suddenly  ask’d  her  if 
she  were. 

She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down, 
and  was  dumb. 

And  then  some  other  question’d  if  she 
came 

From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did 
not  speak. 

Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers  : but 
she 


To  all  their  queries  answer’d  not  a 
word, 

Which  made  the  amazement  more, 
till  one  of  them 

Said,  shuddering,  “ Her  spectre  ! ” 
But  his  friend 

Replied,  in  half  a whisper,  “Not  at 
least 

The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken 
to. 

Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 

Prove,  as  I almost  dread  to  find  her, 
dumb  3 ” 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer’d 
all: 

“ She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you 
see 

That  faithful  servant  whom  we  spoke 
about, 

Obedient  to  her  second  master  now ; 

Which  will  not  last.  I have  here  to- 
night a guest 

So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and 
loss  — 

What ! shall  I bind  him  more  ? in  his 
behalf, 

Shall  I exceed  the  Persian,  giving 
him 

That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest 
to  me, 

Not  only  showing?  and  he  himself 
pronounced 

That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to 
give. 

“ Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all 
of  you 

Not  to  break  in  on  what  I say  by 
word 

Or  whisper,  while  I show  you  all  my 
heart.” 

And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 

As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 

The  passionate  moment  would  not 
suffer  that  — 

Past  thro’  his  visions  to  the  burial ; 
thence 

Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his 
own  hall ; 

And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all 
his  guests 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


673 


Once  more  as  by  enchantment;  all 
but  he, 

Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,  but  fell 
again, 

And  sat  as  if  in  chains  — to  whom  he 
said : 

“ Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for 
your  wife ; 

And  were  it  only  for  the  giver’s  sake, 

And  tho’  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you 
lost, 

Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 

Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring 
her  back : 

I leave  this  land  for  ever.”  Here  he 
ceased. 

Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one 
hand, 

And  bearing  cH  one  arm  the  noble 
babe, 

He  slowly  brought  them  both  to 
Lionel. 

And  there  tli  widower  husband  and 
dead  w 'e 

Hush’d  each  •'t  each  with  a cry,  that 
rather  <eem’d 


For  some  new  death  than  for  a life 
renew’d ; 

Whereat  the  very  babe  began  to  wail ; 

At  once  they  turn’d,  and  caught  and 
brought  him  in 

To  their  charm’d  circle,  and,  half  kill- 
ing him 

With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and 
claspt  again. 

But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  him- 
self 

From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a 
face 

All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of 
life, 

And  love,  and  boundless  thanks  — 
the  sight  of  this 

So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turn- 
ing to  me 

And  saying,  “ It  is  over : let  us 
go  ” — 

There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the 
doors  — 

We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mount- 
ing these 

He  past  forever  from  his  native  land  ; 

And  I with  him,  my  Julian,  back  to 
mine. 


BALLADS  AFD  OTHER  POEMS. 


TO 


ALFRED  TENNYSON, 

MY  GRANDSON. 

Golden-hair’d  Ally  whose  name  is  one  writh  mine, 
Crazy  with  laughter  and  babble  and  earth’s  new  wine, 
Now  that  the  flower  of  a year  and  a half  is  thine, 

O little  blossom,  0 mine,  and  mine  of  mine, 

Glorious  poet  who  never  hast  written  a line, 

Laugh,  for  the  name  at  the  head  of  my  verse  is  thine. 
May’st  thou  never  be  wrong’d  by  the  name  that  is  mine  ! 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 
(in  the  isle  of  wight.) 


“ Wait  a little,”  you  say,  “you  are 
sure  it’ll  all  come  right,” 

But  the  boy  was  born  i’  trouble,  an’ 
looks  so  wan  an’  so  white  : 

W ait ! an’  once  I ha’  waited  — I hadn’t 
to  wait  for  long. 

Now  I wait,  wait,  wait  for  Harry.  — 
No,  no,  you  are  doing  me 
wrong ! 

Harry  and  I were  married : the  boy 
can  hold  up  his  head, 

The  boy  was  born  in  wedlock,  but 
after  my  man  was  dead ; 

I ha’  work’d  for  him  fifteen  years,  an’ 
I work  an’  I wait  to  the  end. 

I am  all  alone  in  the  world,  an’  you 
are  my  only  friend. 

ii. 

Doctor,  if  you  can  wait,  I’ll  tell  you 
the  tale  o’  my  life. 

When  Harry  an’  I were  children,  he 
call’d  me  his  own  little  wife ; 


I was  happy  when  I was  with  him,  an; 
sorry  when  he  was  away, 

An’  when  we  play’d  together,  I loved 
him  better  than  play  ; 

He  workt  me  the  daisy  chain  — he 
made  me  the  cowslip  ball, 

He  fought  the  boys  that  were  rude, 
an’  I loved  him  better  than  all. 

Passionate  girl  tho’  I was,  an’  often  at 
home  in  disgrace, 

I never  could  quarrel  with  Harry  — I 
had  but  to  look  in  his  face. 
hi. 

There  was  a farmer  in  Dorset  of 
Harry’s  kin,  that  had  need 

Of  a good  stout  lad  at  his  farm ; he 
sent,  an’  the  father  agreed ; 

So  Harry  was  bound  to  the  Dorsetshire 
farm  for  years  an’  for  years ; 

I walked  with  him  down  to  the  quay, 
poor  lad,  an’  we  parted  in  tears. 

The  boat  was  beginning  to  move,  we 
heard  them  a-ringing  the  bell, 

“I’ll  never  love  any  but  you,  God 
bless  you,  my  own  little  Nell.” 

IV. 

I was  a child,  an’  he  was  a child,  an’ 
he  came  to  harm ; 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL: 


675 


There  was  a girl,  a liussy,  that  workt 
with  him  up  at  the  farm, 

One  had  deceived  her  an’  left  her 
alone  with  her  sin  an’ her  shame, 
And  so  shewas  wicked  with  Harry;  the 
girl  was  the  most  to  blame. 


And  years  went  over  till  I that  was 
little  had  grown  so  tall, 

The  men  would  say  of  the  maids,  “ Our 
Nelly’s  the  flower  of  ’em  all.” 

I didn’t  take  heed  o’  them,  but  I taught 
myself  all  I could 

To  make  a good  wife  for  Harry,  when 
Harry  came  home  for  good. 

VI. 

Often  I seem’d  unhappy,  and  often  as 
happy  too, 

For  I heard  it  abroad  in  the  fields  “ I’ll 
never  love  any  but  you  ” ; 

“I’ll  never  love  any  but  you”  the 
morning  song  of  the  lark, 

“ I’ll  never  love  any  but  you  ” the  night- 
ingale’s hymn  in  the  dark. 

VII. 

And  Harry  came  home  at  last,  but  he 
look’d  at  me  sidelong  and  shy, 
Vext  me  a bit,  till  he  told  me  that  so 
many  years  had  gone  by, 

I had  grown  so  handsome  and  tall  — 
that  I might  ha’  forgot  him 
somehow  — 

For  he  thought  — there  were  other 
lads  — he  was  fear’d  to  look 
at  me  now. 

VIII. 

Hard  was  the  frost  in  the  field,  we  were 
married  o’  Christmas  day, 
Married  among  the  red  berries,  an’  all 
as  merry  as  May  — 

Those  were  the  pleasant  times,  my 
house  an’  my  man  were  my 
pride, 

We  seem’d  like  ships  i’  the  Channel 
a-sailing  with  wind  an’  tide. 


IX. 

But  work  was  scant  in  the  Isle,  tho’ 
he  tried  the  villages  round, 

So  Harry  went  over  the  Solent  to  see 
if  work  could  be  found ; 

An’  he  wrote,  “I  ha’  six  weeks’  work, 
little  wife,  so  far  as  I know ; 

I’ll  come  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  an’ 
kiss  you  before  I go.” 

x. 

So  I set  to  righting  the  house,  for 
wasn’t  he  coming  that  day  ? 
An’  I hit  on  an  old  deal-box  that  was 
push’d  in  a corner  away, 

It  was  full  of  old  odds  an’  ends,  an’  a 
letter  along  wi’  the  rest, 

I had  better  ha’  put  my  naked  hand 
in  a hornets’  nest. 

XI. 

“ Sweetheart  ” — this  was  the  letter  — . 

this  was  the  letter  I read  — 
“You  promised  to  find  me  work  near 
you,  an’  I wish  I was  dead  — 
Didn’t  you  kiss  me  an’  promise  ? you 
haven’t  done  it,  my  lad, 

An’  I almost  died  o’  your  going  away, 
an’  I wish  that  I had.” 

XII. 

I too  wish  that  I had  — in  the  pleasant 
times  that  had  past, 

Before  I quarrell’d  with  Harry — my 
quarrel  — the  first  an’  the  last. 

XIII. 

For  Harry  came  in,  an’  I flung  him 
the  letter  that  drove  me  wild, 
An’  he  told  it  me  all  at  once,  as  simple 
as  any  child, 

“ What  can  it  matter,  my  lass,  what  I 
did  wi’  my  single  life  ? 

I ha’  been  as  true  to  you  as  ever  a 
man  to  his  wife  ; 

An’  she  wasn’t  one  o’  the  worst.” 
“ Then,”  I said,  “ I’m  none  o’  the 
best.” 

An’  he  smiled  at  me,  “Ain’t  you,  my 
love  ? Come,  come,  little  wife, 
let  it  rest ! 


676 


RIZPAH . 


The  man  isn’t  like  the  woman,  no 
need  to  make  such  a stir.” 

But  he  anger’d  me  all  the  more,  an’  I 
said  “ Y ou  were  keeping  with  her, 
When  I was  a-loving  you  all  along  an’ 
the  same  as  before.” 

An’  he  didn’t  speak  for  a while,  an’ 
he  anger’d  me  more  and  more. 
Then  he  patted  my  hand  in  his  gentle 
way,  “ Let  bygones  be  ! ” 

“ Bygones ! you  kept  yours  hush’d,”  I 
said,  “ when  you  married  me  ! 
By-gones  ma’  be  come-agains;  an’  she 
— in  her  shame  an’  her  sin  — 
You’ll  have  her  to  nurse  my  child,  if 
I die  o’  my  lying  in  ! 

You’ll  make  her  its  second  mother!  I 
hate  her  — an’  I hate  you ! ” 
Ah,  Harry,  my  man,  you  had  better 
ha’  beaten  me  black  an’  blue 
Than  ha’  spoken  as  kind  as  you  did, 
when  I were  so  crazy  wi’  spite, 

“ Wait  a little,  my  lass,  I am  sure  it  ’ill 
all  come  right.” 


XIV. 

An’  he  took  three  turns  in  the  rain, 
an’  I watch’d  him,  an’  when  he 
came  in 

I felt  that  my  heart  was  hard,  he  was 
all  wret  thro’  to  the  skin, 

An’  I never  said  “ off  wi’  the  wet,”  I 
never  said  “ on  wi’  the  dry,” 

So  1 knew  my  heart  was  hard,  when 
he  came  to  bid  me  goodbye. 

“ You  said  that  you  hated  me,  Ellen, 
but  that  isn’t  true,  you  know ; 

I am  going  to  leave  you  a bit  — you’ll 
kiss  me  before  I go  ? ” 


xv. 

“Going!  you’re  going  to  her  — kiss 
her — if  you  will,”  I said,  — 

I was  near  my  time  wi’  the  boy,  I must 
ha’  been  light  i’  my  head  — 

“ I had  sooner  be  cursed  than  kiss’d ! ” 
— I didn’t  know  well  what  I 
meant, 

But  I turn’d  my  face  from  him,  an’  he 
turn’d  his  face  an’  he  went. 


XVI. 

A ad  then  he  sent  me  a letter,  “ I’ve 
gotten  my  work  to  do; 

You  wouldn’t  kiss  me,  my  lass,  an’  I 
never  loved  any  but  you ; 

I am  sorry  for  all  the  quarrel  an’  sorry 
for  what  she  wrote, 

I ha’  six  weeks’  work  in  Jersey  an’  go 
to-night  by  the  boat.” 

XVII. 

An’  the  wind  began  to  rise,  an’  I 
thought  of  him  out  at  sea, 

An’  I felt  I had  been  to  blame;  he 
was  always  kind  to  me. 

“Wait  a little,  my  lass,  I am  sure  it 
’ill  all  come  right  ” — 

An’  the  boat  went  down  that  night  — 
the  boat  went  down  that  night. 


RIZPAH. 

17—. 

i. 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind 
over  land  and  sea  — 

And  Willy’s  voice  in  the  wind,  “ O 
mother,  come  out  to  me.” 

Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when 
he  knows  that  I cannot  go  1 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and 
the  full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 

ii. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear;  they 
would  spy  us  out  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the 
storm  rushing  over  the  down, 
When  I cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but 
am  led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I 
find  myself  drenched  with  the 
rain. 

hi. 

Anything  fallen  again  ? nay  — what 
was  there  left  to  fall  1 
I have  taken  them  home,  I have  num- 
ber’d the  bones,  I have  hidden 
them  all. 


RIZPAH. 


677 


What  am  I saying  ? and  what  are  you  ? 
do  you  come  as  a spy  ? 

Falls  ? what  falls  ? who  knows  ? As 
the  tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 

IV. 

Who  let  her  in?  how  long  has  she  been? 
you  — what  have  you  heard  ? 

Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  ? you  never 
have  spoken  a word. 

0 — to  pray  with  me — yes  — a lady 
— none  of  their  spies  — 

But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart, 
and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 


Ah — you,  that  have  lived  so  soft, 
what  should  you  know  of  the 
night, 

The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and 
the  bitter  frost  and  the  fright  ? 

I have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep  — 
you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 

I have  gather’d  my  baby  together  — 
and  now  you  may  go  your  way. 

VI. 

Nay  — for  it’s  kind  of  you,  Madam,  to 
sit  by  an  old  dying  wife. 

But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I 
have  only  an  hour  of  life. 

I kiss’d  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before 
he  went  out  to  die. 

“They  dared  me  to  do  it,”  he  said, 
and  he  never  has  told  me  a lie. 

I whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard 
once  when  he  was  but  a child  — 

“ The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,”  he 
said ; he  was  always  so  wild  — 

And  idle  — and  couldn’t  be  idle  — my 
Willy  — he  never  could  rest. 

The  King  should  have  made  him  a 
soldier,  he  would  have  been 
one  of  his  best. 

VII. 

But  he  lived  with  a lot  of  wild  mates, 
and  they  never  would  let  him 
be  good ; 

They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the 
mail,  and  he  swore  that  he 
would  : 


And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one 
purse,  and  when  all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows  — I'll 
none  of  it,  said  my  son. 

VIII. 

I came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the 
lawyers.  I told  them  my  tale, 
God’s  own  truth  — but  they  kill’d  him, 
they  kill’d  him  for  robbing  the 
mail. 

They  hang’d  him  in  chains  for  a show 

— we  had  always  borne  a good 
name  — 

To  be  hang’d  for  a thief — and  then 
put  away  — isn’t  that  enough 
shame  ? 

Dust  to  dust  — low  down  — let  us  hide ! 

but  they  set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could 
stare  at  him,  passing  by. 

God  ’ill  pardon  the  hell-black  raven 
and  horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer 
who  kill’d  him  and  hang’d  him 
there. 

IX. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.  I had 
bid  him  my  last  goodbye ; 

They  had  fasten’d  the  door  of  his  cell. 

“ 0 mother ! ” I heard  him  cry. 
I couldn’t  get  back  tho’  I tried,  he  had 
something  further  to  say, 

And  now  I never  shall  know  it.  The 
jailer  forced  me  away. 

x. 

Then  since  I couldn’t  but  hear  that 
cry  of  my  boy  that  was  dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up  : they 
fasten’d  me  down  on  my  bed. 

“ Mother,  O mother ! ” — he  call’d  in  the 
dark  to  me  year  after  year  — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me 

— you  know  that  I couldn’t  but 
hear ; 

And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I had 
grown  so  stupid  and  still 
They  let  me  abroad  again  — but  the 
creatures  had  worked  their  will. 


678 


RIZPAH ; 


XI. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone 
of  my  bone  was  left — • 

I stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers  — 
and  you,  will  you  call  it  a 
theft  ? — 

My  baby?  the  bones  that  had  suck’d 
me,  the  bones  that  had  laughed 
and  had  cried  — 

Theirs  i O no!  they  are  mine  — not 
theirs  — they  had  moved  in  my 
side. 

XII. 

Do  you  think  I was  scared  by  the 
bones  ? I kiss’d  ’em,  I buried 
’em  all  — 

I can’t  dig  deep,  I am  old  — in  the 
night  by  the  churchyard  wall. 

My  Willy  ’ill  rise  up  whole  when  the 
trumpet  of  judgment  ’ill  sound, 

But  I charge  you  never  to  say  that  I 
laid  him  in  holy  ground. 


XIII. 

They  would  scratch  him  up  — they 
would  hang  him  again  on  the 
cursed  tree. 

Sin  1 O yes  — we  are  sinners,  I know 

— let  all  that  be, 

And  read- me  a Bible  verse  of  the 
Lord’s  good  will  toward  men  — 
“ Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the 
Lord  ” — let  me  hear  it  again  ; 
“ Full  of  compassion  and  mercy  — 
long-suffering.”  Yes,  O yes  ! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder 

— the  Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He’ll  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except 

for  the  worst  of  the  worst, 

And  the  first  may  be  last — I have 
heard  it  in  church  — and  the 
last  may  be  first. 

Suffering  — O long-suffering  — yes,  as 
the  Lord  must  know, 

Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the 
wind  and  the  shower  and  the 
snow. 


xiv. 

Heard,  have  you  ? what  ? they  have 
told  you  he  never  repented  his 
sin. 

How  do  they  know  it  ? are  they  his 
mother  ? are  you  of  his  kin  7 
Heard ! have  you  ever  heard,  when 
the  storm  on  the  downs  began, 
The  wind  that  ’ill  wail  like  a child  and 
the  sea  that  ’ill  moan  like  a 
man  7 


xv. 

Election,  Election  and  Reprobation  — 
it’s  all  very  well. 

But  I go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I 
shall  not  find  him  in  Hell. 

For  I cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that 
the  Lord  has  look’d  into  my 
care, 

And  He  means  me  I’m  sureto  be  happy 
with  Willy,  I know  not  where. 


XVI. 

And  if  he  be  lost  — but  to  save  my  soul, 
that  is  all  your  desire  : 

Do  you  think  that  I care  for  my  soul 
if  my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I have  been  with  God  in  the  dark  — go, 
go,  you  may  leave  me  alone  — 
You  never  have  borne  a child  — you 
are  just  as  hard  as  a stone. 


XVII. 

Madam,  I beg  your  pardon  ! I think 
that  you  mean  to  be  kind, 

But  I cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 
Willy’s  voice  in  the  wind  — 
The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright  — he 
used  but  to  call  in  the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the 
church  and  not  from  the  gibbet 
— for  hark  ! 

Nay  — you  can  hear  it  yourself  — it  is 
coming  — shaking  the  walls  — 

Willy — the  moon’s  in  a cloud 

Good  night.  I am  going.  He 
calls. 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER . 


679 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


Waait  till  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur 
thou  mun  a’  sights1  to  tell. 

Eh,  but  I be  maain  glad  to  seea  tha  sa 
’arty  an’  well. 

“ Cast  awaay  an  a disolut  land  wi’  a 
vartical  soon  2 ! ” 

Strange  fur  to  goa  fur  to  think  what 
saailors  a’  seean  an’  a’  doon  ; 

“ Summat  to  drink  — sa’  ’ot  ? ” I ’a 
nowt  but  Adam’s  wine  : 

What’s  the  ’eat  o’  this  little  ’ill-side  to 
the  ’eat  o’  the  line  ? 

ii. 

“ What’s  i’  tha  bottle  a-stanning 
theer  ? ” I’ll  tell  tha.  Gin. 
But  if  thou  wants  thy  grog,  tha  mun 
goa  fur  it  down  to  the  inn. 
Naay  — fur  I be  maan-glad,  but  thaw 
tha  was  iver  sa  dry, 

Thou  gits  naw  gin  fro’  the  bottle  theer, 
an’  I’ll  tell  tha  why. 

hi. 

Mea  an’  thy  sister  was  married,  when 
wur  it  1 back-end  o’  June, 

Ten  year  sin’,  and  wa  ’greed  as  well 
as  a fiddle  i’  tune  : 

I could  fettle  and  clump  owd  booots 
and  shoes  wd’  the  best  on  ’em  all, 
As  fur  as  fro’  Thursby  thurn  hup  to 
Harmsby  and  Hutterby  Hall. 
We  was  busy  as  beeas  i’  the  bloom  an’ 
as  ’appy  as  ’art  could  think, 
An’  then  the  babby  wur  burn,  and 
then  I taakes  to  the  drink. 

1 The  vowels  ai,  pronounced  separately 
though  in  the  closest  conjunction,  best  render 
the  sound  of  the  long  i and  y in  this  dialect. 
But  since  such  words  as  craiin’,  da/iin whdi, 
ai  (I),  etc.,  look  awkward  except  in  a page 
of  express  phonetics,  I have  thought  it  better 
to  leave  the  simple  i and  y,  and  trust  that  my 
readers  will  give  them  the  broader  pronunci- 
ation. 

2 The  oo  short,  as  in  “ wood.” 


IV. 

An’  I weant  gaainsaay  it,  my  lad,  thaw 
I be  hafe  shaamed  on  it  now, 
We  could  sing  a good  song  at  the 
Plow,  we  could  sing  a good  song 
at  the  Plow ; 

Thaw  once  of  a frosty  night  I slither’d 
an’  hurted  my  huck,1 
An’  I coom’d  neck-an-crop  soomtimes 
slaape  down  i’  the  squad  an’ 
the  muck  : 

An’  once  I fowt  wi’  the  Taailor  — not 
hafe  ov  a man,  my  lad  — 

Fur  he  scrawm’d  an’  scratted  my  faace 
like  a cat,  an’  it  maade  ’er  sa 
mad 

That  Sally  she  turn’d  a tongue-bang- 
er, 2 an’  raiited  ma,  ‘ Sottin’  thy 
braains 

Guzzlin’  an’  soakin’  an’  smoakin’  an’ 
hawmin’  3 about  i’  the  laanes, 
Soa  sow-droonk  that  tha  doesn  not 
touch  thy  ’at  to  the  Squire  ; ’ 
An’  I loook’d  cock-eyed  at  my  noase 
an’  I seead  ’im  a-gitten’  o’  fire  ; 
But  sin’  I wur  hallus  i’  liquor  an’  hal- 
lus  as  droonk  as  a king, 

Foalks’  coostom  flitted  awaay  like  a 
kite  wi’  a brokken  string. 


v. 

An’  Sally  she  wesh’d  foalks’  cloatlis 
to  keep  the  wolf  fro’  the  door, 
Eh  but  the  moor  she  riled  me,  she 
druv  me  to  drink  the  moor, 
Fur  I fun’,  when  ’er  back  wur  turn’d, 
wheer  Sally’s  owd  stockin’  wur 
’id, 

An’  I grabb’d  the  munny  she  maade, 
and  I wear’d  it  o’  liquor,  I did. 

VI. 

An’  one  night  I cooms  ’oam  like  a 
bull  gotten  loose  at  a faair, 

An’  she  wur  a-waaitin’  fo’mma,  an’ 
cryin’  and  fearin’  ’er  ’aair, 

An’  I tummled  athurt  the  craadle  an’ 
swear’d  as  I’d  break  ivry  stick 
1 Hip.  2 Scold.  3 Lounging. 


680 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER . 


O’  furnitur  ’ere  i’  the  ’ouse,  an’  I gied 
our  Sally  a kick, 

An’  I mash’d  the  taables  an’  chairs, 
an’  she  an’  the  babby  beal’d, 1 
Fur  I knaw’d  naw  moor  what  I did 
nor  a mortal  beast  o’  the  feald. 

VII. 

An’  when  I waaked  i’  the  murnin’  I 
seead  that  our  Sally  went 
laiimed 

Cos’  o’  the  kick  as  I gied  ’er,  an’  I wur 
dreadful  ashaamed ; 

An’  Sally  wur  sloomy2an’  draggle 
taiiil’d  in  an  owd  turn  gown, 

An’  the  babby’s  faace  wurn’t  wesh’d 
and  the  ’ole  ’ouse  hupside  down. 

VIII. 

An’  then  I minded  our  Sally  sa  pratty 
an’  neat  an’  sweeat, 

Straat  as  a pole  an’  clean  as  a flower 
fro’  ’ead  to  feeat : 

An’  then  I minded  the  fust  kiss  I gied 
’er  by  Thursby  thurn  ; 

Theer  wur  a lark  a-singin’  ’is  best  of 
a Sunday  at  murn, 

Couldn’t  see  ’im,  we  ’eard  ’im  a-, 
mountin’  oop  ’igher  an’  ’igher, 
An’  then  ’e  turn’d  to  the  sun,  an’  ’e 
shined  like  a sparkle  o’  fire. 

“ Doesn’t  tha  see  ’im,”  she  axes,  “ fur 
I can  see  ’im  ? ” an’  I 
Seead  nobbut  the  smile  o’  the  sun  as 
danced  in  ’er  pratty  blue  eye  ; 
An’  I says  “ I mun  gie  tha  a kiss,”  an’ 
Sally  says  “Noa,  thou  moant,” 
But  I gied’er  a kiss,  an’  then  anoother, 
an’  Sally  says  “ doant ! ” 

IX. 

An’  when  we  coom’d  into  Meeatin’,  at 
fust  she  wur  all  in  a tew, 

But,  arter,  we  sing’d  the  ’ymn  togither 
like  birds  on  a beugh  ; 

An’  Muggins  ’e  preach’d  o’  Hell-fire 
an’  the  loove  o’  God  fur  men, 
An  then  upo’  coomin’  awaay  Sally 
gied  me  a kiss  ov  ’ersen. 

1 Bellowed,  cried  out. 

2 Sluggish,  out  of  spirits. 


x. 

Heer  wur  a fall  fro’  a kiss  to  a kick 
like  Saatan  as  fell 

Down  out  o’  heaven  i’  Hell-fire  — thaw 
theer’s  naw  drinkin’  i’  Hell ; 
Mea  fur  to  kick  our  Sally  as  kep  the 
wolf  fro’  the  door, 

All  along  o’  the  drink,  fur  I loov’d  ’er 
as  well  as  afoor. 

XI. 

Sa  like  a graat  num-cumpus  I blub- 
ber’d awaay  o’  the  bed  — 

“ Weant  niver  do  it  naw  moor;  ” 

an’  Sally  loookt  up  an’  she  said, 
“ I’ll  upowd  it 1 tha  weant ; thou’rt 
like  the  rest  o’  the  men, 

Thou’ll  goa  sniffin’  about  the  tap  till 
tha  does  it  agean. 

Theer’s  thy  hennemy,  man,  an’  I 
knaws,  as  knaws  tha  sa  well, 
That,  if  tha  seeas  ’im  an’  smells  ’im 
tha’ll  foller  ’im  slick  into  Hell.” 

XII. 

“ Naay,”  says  I,  “ fur  I weant  goa 
sniffin’  about  the  tap.” 

“ Weant  tha  ? ” she  says,  an’  mysen  I 
thowt  i’  mysen  “ mayhap.” 
“Noa;”  an’ I started  awaay  like  a 
shot,  an’  down  to  the  Hinn, 

An’  I browt  what  tha  seeas  stannin’ 
theer,  yon  big  black  bottle  o’ 
gin. 

XIII. 

“ That  caps  owt,”  2 says  Sally,  an’  saw 
she  begins  to  cry, 

But  I puts  it  inter  ’er  ’ands  ’an  I says 
to  ’er,  “ Sally,”  says  I, 

“ Stan’  ’im  theer  i’  the  naame  o’  the 
Lord  an’  the  power  ov  ’is 
Graace, 

Stan’  ’im  theer,  fur  I’ll  loook  my 
hennemy  strait  i’  the  faace, 
Stan’  ’im  theer  i’  the  winder,  an’  let 
ma  loook  at  ’im  then, 

’E  seeams  naw  moor  nor  watter,  an' 
’e’s  the  Divil’s  oan  sen.” 

1 I’ll  uphold  it. 

2 That’s  beyond  everything. 


THE  REVENGE. 


6S1 


XIV. 

An’  I wur  down  i’  tha  mouth,  couldn’t 
do  naw  work  an’  all, 

Nasty  an’  snaggy  an’  shaaky,  an’ 
poonch’d  my  ’and  wi’  the  hawl, 
But  she  wur  a power  o’  coomfut,  an’ 
sattled  ’ersen  o’  my  knee, 

An’  coaxd  an’  coodled  me  oop  till 
agean  I feel’d  mysen  free. 

xv. 

An’  Sally  she  tell’d  it  about,  an’  foalk 
stood  a-gawmin’ 1 in, 

As  thaw  it  wur  summat  bewitch’d 
istead  of  a quart  o’  gin ; 

An’  some  on  ’em  said  it  wur  watter  — 
an’  I wur  chousin’  the  wife, 

Fur  I couldn’t  ’owd  ’ands  off  gin,  wur 
it  nobbut  to  saave  my  life ; 

An’  blacksmith  ’e  strips  me  the  thick 
ov  ’is  airm,  an’  ’e  shaws  it  to  me, 
“ Feeal  thou  this ! thou  can’t  graw 
this  upo’  watter  ! ” says  he. 

An’  Doctor  ’e  calls  o’  Sunday  an’  just 
as  candles  was  lit, 

“ Thou  moant  do  it,”  he  says,  “ tha 
mun  break  ’im  off  bit  by  bit.” 
“Thou’rt  but  a Methody-man,”  says 
Parson,  and  laays  down  ’is  ’at, 
An’  ’e  points  to  the  bottle  o’  gin,  “but 
I respecks  tha  fur  that ; ” 

An’  Squire,  his  oan  very  sen,  walks 
down  fro’  the  ’All  to  see, 

An’  ’e  spanks  ’is  ’and  into  mine,  “ fur 
I respecks  tha,”  says  ’e  ; 

An’  coostom  agean  draw’d  in  like  a 
wind  fro’  far  an’  wide, 

And  browt  me  the  booots  to  be  cob- 
bled fro’  hafe  the  coontryside. 

XVI. 

An’  theer  ’e  stans  an’  theer  ’e  shall 
stan  to  my  dying  daay ; 

I ’a  gotten  to  loov  ’im  agean  in 
anoother  kind  of  a waay, 

Proud  on  ’im,  like,  my  lad,  an’  I 
keeaps  ’im  clean  an’  bright, 
Loovs  ’im,  an’  roobs  ’im,  an’  doosts 
’im,  an’  puts  ’im  back  i’  the  light. 

1 Staring  vacantly. 


XVII. 

Wouldn’t  a pint  a’  sarved  as  well  as  a 
quart  1 Naw  doubt : 

But  I liked  a bigger  feller  to  fight  wi’ 
an’  fowt  it  out. 

Fine  an’  meller  ’e  mun  be  by  this,  if  I 
cared  to  taaste, 

But  I moant,  my  lad,  and  I weant,  fur 
I’d  feal  mysen  clean  dis- 
graaced. 

XVIII. 

An’  once  I said  to  the  Missis,  “ My 
lass,  when  I cooms  to  die, 

Smash  the  bottle  to  smithers,  the 
Divil’s  in  ’im,”  said  I. 

But  arter  I chaanged  my  mind,  an’  if 
Sally  be  left  aloan, 

I’ll  hev  ’im  a-buried  wi’mma  an’  taake 
’im  afoor  the  Throan. 

XIX. 

Coom  thou  ’eer  — yon  laady  a-steppin’ 
along  the  streeat, 

Doesn’t  tha  knaw  ’er — sa  pratty,  an’ 
feat,  an’  neat,  an’  sweeat'? 

Look  at  the  cloaths  on  ’er  back, 
thebbe  ammost  spick-span-new, 

An’  Tommy’s  faace  be  as  fresh  as  a 
codlin  wesh’d  i’  the  dew. 

xx. 

’Ere  be  our  Sally  an’  Tommy,  an’  we 
be  a-goin  to  dine, 

Baacon  an’  taates,  an’  a beslingsqmd- 
din’1  an’  Adam’s  wine  ; 

But  if  tha  wants  ony  grog  tha  mun 
goa  fur  it  down  to  the  Hinn, 

Fur  I weant  shed  a drop  on  ’is  blood, 
noa,  not  fur  Sally’s  oan  kin. 


THE  KEVENGE. 

A BALLAD  OF  THE  FLEET. 

I. 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard 
Grenville  lay, 

And  a pinnance,  like  a flutter’d  bird, 
came  flying  from  far  away  : 

1 A pudding  made  with  the  first  milk  of 
the  cow  after  calving. 


682 


THE  REVENGE. 


“ Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea ! we 
have  sighted  fifty-three  ! ” 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard  : 
“ ’Fore  God  I am  no  coward ; 
But  I cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my 
ships  are  out  of  gear, 

And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.  I 
must  fly,  but  follow  quick. 

We  are  six  ships  of  the  line ; can  we 
fight  with  fifty-three  ? ” 

ii. 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  : “ I 
know  you  are  no  coward ; 

You  fly  them  for  a moment  to  fight 
with  them  again. 

But  I’ve  ninety  men  and  more  that 
are  lying  sick  ashore. 

I should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I 
left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 
To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the 
devildoms  of  Spain.” 

hi. 

So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five 
ships  of  war  that  day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a cloud  in  the 
silent  summer  heaven ; 

But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his 
sick  men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow, 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 

And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down 
below ; 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that 
they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 

To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for 
the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

IV. 

He  had  only  a hundred  seamen  to 
work  the  ship  and  to  fight, 

And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till 
the  Spaniard  came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving 
upon  the  weather  bow. 

“ Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly  ? 

Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die ! 


There’ll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the 
time  this  sun  be  set.” 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again  : “ We  be 
all  good  English  men. 

Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the 
children  of  the  devil, 

For  I never  turn’d  my  back  upon 
Don  or  devil  yet.” 


Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh’d,  and 
we  roar’d  a hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into 
the  heart  of  the  foe, 

With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck, 
and  her  ninety  sick  below ; 

For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right 
and  half  to  the  left  wTere  seen, 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro’ 
the  long  sea-lane  between. 

VI. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look’d 
down  from  their  decks  and 
laugh’d, 

Thousands  of  their  seamen  made 
mock  at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay’d 
By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip 
that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with 
her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and 
we  stay’d. 

VII. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip 
hung  above  us  like  a cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 
From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two 
upon  the  starboard  lay, 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from 
them  all. 

VIII. 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  be- 
thought herself  and  went 
Having  that  within  her  womb  that 
had  left  her  ill  content ; 


THE  REVENGE.  683 


And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 
they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 
For  a dozen  times  they  came  with 
their  pikes  and  musqueteers, 
And  a dozen  times  we  shook  ’em  off 
as  a dog  that  shakes  his  ears 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the 
land. 

IX. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars 
came  out  far  over  the  summer 
sea, 

But  never  a moment  ceased  the  fight 
of  the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
their  high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
with  her  battle-thunder  and 
flame ; 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 
drew  back  with  her  dead  and  her 
shame. 

For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were 
shatter’d,  and  so  could  fight  us 
no  more  — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a battle  like 
this  in  the  world  before  'l 

x. 

For  he  said  “ Fight  on  ! fight  on  ! ” 
Tho’  his  vessel  was  all  but  a wreck ; 
And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the 
short  summer  night  was  gone, 
With  a grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he 
had  left  the  deck, 

But  a bullet  struck  him  that  was 
dressing  it  suddenly  dead, 

And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in 
the  side  and  the  head, 

And  he  said  “ Fight  on  ! fight  on  ! ” 

XI. 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 
smiled  out  far  over  the  summer 
sea, 

And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken 
sides  lay  round  us  all  in  a ring ; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again, 
for  they  fear’d  that  we  still 
could  sting, 


So  they  watch’d  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 

Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were 
slain, 

And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim’d  for 
life 

In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and 
the  desperate  strife ; 

And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold 
were  most  of  them  stark  and 
cold, 

And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent, 
and  the  powder  was  all  of  it 
spent ; 

And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were 
lying  over  the  side  ; 

But  Sir  Bichard  cried  in  his  English 
pride, 

“We  have  fought  such  a fight  for  a 
day  and  a night 

As  may  never  be  fought  again  ! 

We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  ! 
And  a day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 

We  die  — does  it  matter  when  ? 

Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner  — 
sink  her,  split  her  in  twain ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into 
the  hands  of  Spain  ! ” 

XII. 

And  the  gunner  said  “Ay,  ay,”  but 
the  seamen  made  reply  : 

“ We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise, 
if  we  yield,  to  let  us  go ; 

We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to 
strike  another  blow.” 

And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 
yielded  to  the  foe. 

XIII. 

And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their 
flagship  bore  him  then, 

Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old 
Sir  Richard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with 
their  courtly  foreign  grace ; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he 
cried : 


6S4 


THE  SISTERS. 


“ I have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith 
like  a valiant  man  and  true ; 

I have  only  done  my  duty  as  a man  is 
hound  to  do  : 

With  a joyful  spirit  I Sir  Richard 
Grenville  die  ! ” 

And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he 
died. 

XIV. 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had 
been  so  valiant  and  true, 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory 
of  Spain  so  cheap 

That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship 
and  his  English  few ; 

Was  he  devil  or  man  ? He  was  devil 
for  aught  they  knew, 

But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor 
down  into  the  deep, 

And  they  mann’d  the  Revenge  with  a 
swarthier  alien  crew, 

And  away  she  sail’d  with  her  loss  and 
long’d  for  her  own  ; 

When  a wind  from  the  lands  they  had 
ruin’d  awoke  from  sleep, 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the 
weather  to  moan, 

And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a 
great  gale  blew, 

And  a wave  like  the  wave  that  is 
raised  by  an  earthquake  grew, 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their 
sails  and  their  masts  and  their 
flags, 

And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on 
the  shot-shatter’d  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went 
down  by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


THE  SISTERS. 

They  have  left  the  doors  ajar ; and 
by  their  clash, 

And  prelude  on  the  keys,  I kno  v the 
song, 

Their  favorite  — which  I call  “ The 
Tables  Turned.” 

Evelyn  begins  it  “ 0 diviner  Air.” 


EVELYN. 

O diviner  Air, 

Thro’  the  heat,  the  drowth,  the  dust, 
the  glare, 

Far  from  out  the  west  in  shadowing 
showers, 

Over  all  the  meadow  baked  and  bare. 
Making  fresh  and  fair 
All  the  bowers  and  the  flowers, 
Fainting  flowers,  faded  bowers, 

Over  all  this  weary  world  of  ours, 
Breathe,  diviner  Air ! 

A sweet  voice  that  — you  scarce  could 
better  that. 

Now  follows  Edith  echoing  Evelyn. 

EDITH. 

0 diviner  light, 

Thro’  the  cloud  that  roofs  our  noon 
with  night, 

Thro’  the  blotting  mist,  the  blinding 
showers, 

Far  from  out  a sky  for  ever  bright, 
Overall  the  woodland’sfloodedbowers, 
Over  all  the  meadow’s  drowning  flow- 
ers, 

Over  all  this  ruin’d  world  of  ours, 
Break,  diviner  light! 

Marvellously  like,  their  voices  — and 
themselves ! 

Tho’  one  is  somewhat  deeper  than  the 
other, 

As  one  is  somewhat  graver  than  the 
other  — 

Edith  thanEvelyn.  Yourgood  Uncle, 
whom 

You  count  the  father  of  your  fortune, 
longs 

For  this  alliance : let  me  ask  you  then, 
Which  voice  most  takes  you  ? for  I 
do  not  doubt 

Being  a watchful  parent,  you  are 
taken 

With  one  or  other  : tho’  sometimes  I 
fear 

You  may  be  flickering,  fluttering  in  a 
doubt 

Between  the  two — which  must  not  be 
— which  might 


THE  SISTERS. 


6S5 


Be  death  to  one  : they  both  are  beau- 
tiful : 

Evelyn  is  gayer,  wittier,  prettier,  says 

The  common  voice,  if  one  may  trust 
it:  she  ? 

No!  but  the  paler  and  the  graver, 
Edith. 

W oo  her  and  gain  her  then : no 
wavering,  boy  ! 

The  graver  is  perhaps  the  one  for  you 

Who  jest  and  laugh  so  easily  and  so 
well. 

For  love  will  go  by  contrast,  as  by 
likes. 

No  sisters  ever  prized  each  other 
more. 

Not  so:  their  mother  and  her  sister 
loved 

More  passionately  still. 

But  that  my  best 

And  oldest  friend,  your  Uncle,  wishes 
it. 

And  that  I know  you  worthy  every- 
way 

To  be  my  son,  I might,  perchance,  be 
loath 

To  part  them,  or  part  from  them  : and 
yet  one 

Should  marry,  or  all  the  broad  lands 
in  your  view 

From  this  bay  window  — which  our 
house  has  held 

Three  hundred  years  — will  pass  col- 
laterally. 

My  father  with  a child  on  either 
knee, 

A hand  upon  the  head  of  either  child, 

Smoothing  their  locks,  as  golden  as 
his  own 

Were  silver,  “get  them  wedded” 
would  he  say. 

And  once  my  prattling  Edith  ask’d 
him  “ why  1 ” 

Ay,  why  ? said  he,  “ for  why  should  I 
go  lame  i ” 

Then  told  them  of  his  wars,  and  of 
his  wound. 

For  see  — this  wine  — the  grape  from 
whence  it  flow’d 

Was  blackening  on  the  slopes  of 
Portugal, 


When  that  brave  soldier,  down  the 
terrible  ridge 

Plunged  in  the  last  fierce  charge  at 
Waterloo, 

And  caught  the  laming  bullet.  He 
left  me  this, 

Which  yet  retains  a memory  of  its 
youth, 

As  I of  mine,  and  my  first  passion. 
Come ! 

Here’s  to  your  happy  union  with  my 
child ! 

Yet  must  you  change  your  name  : 
no  fault  of  mine  ! 

You  say  that  you  can  do  it  as  willingly 

As  birds  make  ready  for  their  bridal' 
time 

By  change  of  feather : for  all  that, 
my  boy, 

Some  birds  are  sick  and  sullen  when 
they  moult. 

An  old  and  worthy  name  ! but  mine 
that  stirr’d 

Among  our  civil  wars  and  earlier  too 

Among  the  Roses,  the  more  venerable. 

/ care  not  for  a name  — no  fault  of 
mine. 

Once  more  — a happier  marriage  than 
my  own ! 

You  see  yon  Lombard  poplar  on  the 
plain. 

The  highway  running  by  it  leaves  a 
breadth 

Of  sward  to  left  and  right,  where,  long 
ago, 

One  bright  May  morning  in  a world 
of  song, 

I lay  at  leisure,  watching  overhead 

The  aerial  poplar  wave,  an  amber 
spire. 

I dozed  ; I woke.  An  open  landau- 
let 

Whirl’d  by,  which,  after  it  had  past 
me,  show’d 

Turning  my  way,  the  loveliest  face 
on  earth. 

The  face  of  one  there  sitting  opposite, 

On  whom  I brought  a strange  unhap- 
piness, 

That  time  I did  not  see. 


686 


THE  SISTERS. 


Love  at  first  sight 

May  seem  — with  goodly  rhyme  and 
reason  for  it  — 

Possible  — at  first  glimpse,  and  for  a 
face 

Gone  in  a moment  — strange.  Yet 
once,  when  first 

I came  on  lake  Llanberris  in  the  dark, 

A moonless  night  with  storm  — one 
lightning-fork 

Flash’d  out  the  lake ; and  tho’  I 
loiter’d  there 

The  full  day  after,  yet  in  retrospect 

That  less  than  momentary  thunder- 
sketch 

Of  lake  and  mountain  conquers  all 
the  day. 

The  Sun  himself  has  limn’d  the  face 
for  me. 

Not  quite  so  quickly,  no,  nor  half  as 
well. 

For  look  you  here  — the  shadows  are 
too  deep, 

And  like  the  critic’s  blurring  comment 
make 

The  veriest  beauties  of  the  work 
appear 

The  darkest  faults : the  sweet  eyes 
frown : the  lips 

Seem  but  a gash.  sole  memorial 

Of  Edith  — no,  the  other,  — both 
indeed. 

So  that  bright  face  was  flash’d  thro’ 
sense  and  soul 

And  by  the  poplar  vanish’d  — to  be 
found 

Long  after,  as  it  seem’5,  beneath  the 
tall 

Tree-bowers,  and  those  long-sweeping 
beechen  boughs 

Of  our  New  Forest.  I was  there 
alone : 

The  phantom  of  the  whirling  landau- 
let 

For  ever  past  me  by : when  one  quick 
peal 

Of  laughter  drew  me  thro’  the  glim- 
mering glades 

Down  to  the  snowlike  sparkle  of  a 
cloth 


On  fern  and  foxglove.  Lo,  the  face 
again, 

My  Rosalind  in  this  Arden  — Edith 
— all 

One  bloom  of  youth,  health,  beauty, 
happiness, 

And  moved  to  merriment  at  a passing 
jest. 

There  one  of  those  about  her  know- 
ing me 

Call’d  me  to  join  them  ; so  with  these 
I spent 

What  seem’d  my  crowning  hour,  my 
day  of  days. 

I woo’d  her  then,  nor  unsuccess- 
fully, 

The  worse  for  her,  for  me  ! was  I con- 
tent ? 

Ay  — no,  not  quite  ; for  now  and  then 
I thought 

Laziness,  vague  love-longings,  the 
bright  May, 

Had  made  a heated  haze  to  magnify 

The  charm  of  Edith  — that  a man’s 
ideal 

Is  high  in  Heaven,  and  lodged  with 
Plato’s  God, 

Not  findable  here  — content,  and  not 
content, 

In  some  such  fashion  as  a man  may 
be 

That  having  had  the  portrait  of  his 
friend 

Drawn  by  an  artist,  looks  at  it,  and 
says, 

“ Good  ! very  like  ! not  altogether  he.” 

As  yet  I had  not  bound  myself  by 
words, 

Only,  believing  I loved  Edith,  piade 

Edith  love  me.  Then  came  the  day 
when  I, 

Flattering  myself  that  all  my  doubts 
were  fools 

Born  of  the  fool  this  Age  that  doubts 
of  all  — 

Not  I that  day  of  Edith’s  love  or 
mine  — 

Had  braced  my  purpose  to  declare 
myself : 


THE  SISTERS. 


6S7 


I stood  upon  the  stairs  of  Paradise. 

The  golden  gates  would  open  at  a 
word. 

I spoke  it  — told  her  of  my  passion, 
seen 

And  lost  and  found  again,  had  got  so 
far, 

Had  caught  her  hand,  her  eyelids 
fell  — I heard 

Wheels,  and  a noise  of  welcome  at 
the  doors  — - 

On  a sudden  after  two  Italian  years 

Had  set  the  blossom  of  her  health 
again, 

The  younger  sister,  Evelyn,  enter’d 
— there, 

There  was  the  face,  and  altogether 
she. 

The  mother  fell  about  the  daughter’s 
neck, 

The  sisters  closed  in  one  another’s 
arms, 

Their  people  throng’d  about  them 
from  the  hall, 

And  in  the  thick  of  question  and 
reply 

I fled  the  house,  driven  by  one  angel 
face, 

And  all  the  Furies. 

I was  bound  to  her; 

I could  not  free  myself  in  honor  — 
bound 

Not  by  the  sounded  letter  of  the  word, 

But  counterpressures  of  the  yielded 
hand 

That  timorously  and  faintly  echoed 
mine, 

Quick  blushes,  the  sweet  dwelling  of 
her  eyes 

Upon  me  when  she  thought  I did  not 
see  — 

Were  these  not  bonds  1 nay,  nay,  but 
could  I wed  her 

Loving  the  other  ? do  her  that  great 
wrong  ? 

Had  I not  dream’d  I loved  her  yester- 
morn  ? 

Had  I not  known  where  Love,  at  first 
a fear, 

Grew  after  marriage  to  full  height 
and  form  ? 


Yet  after  marriage,  that  mock-sister 
there  — 

Brother-in-law  — the  fiery  nearness  of 
it  — 

Unlawful  and  disloyal  brotherhood  — 

What  end  but  darkness  could  ensue 
from  this 

For  all  the  three  ? So  Love  and  Honor 
jarr’d 

Tho’  Love  and  Honor  join’d  to  raise 
the  full 

High-tide  of  doubt  that  sway’d  me  up 
and  down 

Advancing  nor  retreating. 

Edith  wrote: 

“ My  mother  bids  me  ask  ” (I  did  not 
tell  you  — 

A widow  with  less  guile  than  many  a 
child. 

God  help  the  wrinkled  children  that 
are  Christ’s 

As  well  as  the  plump  cheek  — she 
wrought  us  harm, 

Poor  soul,  not  knowing)  “ are  you 
ill  ? ” (so  ran 

The  letter)  “ you  have  not  been  here 
of  late. 

You  will  not  find  me  here.  At  last  I 
go 

On  that  long-promised  visit  to  the 
North. 

I told  your  wayside  story  to  my 
mother 

And  Evelyn.  She  remembers  you. 
Farewell. 

Pray  come  and  see  my  mother.  Al- 
most blind 

With  ever-growing  cataract,  yet  she 
thinks 

She  sees  you  when  she  hears.  Again 
farewell.” 

Cold  words  from  one  I had  hoped  to 
warm  so  far 

That  I could  stamp  my  image  on  her 
heart ! 

“ Pray  come  and  see  my  mother,  and 
farewell.” 

Cold,  but  as  welcome  as  free  airs  of 
heaven 

After  a dungeon’s  closeness.  Selfish, 
strange ! 


688 


THE  SISTERS. 


What  dwarfs  are  men  ! my  strangled 
vanity 

Utter’d  a stifled  cry  — to  have  vext 
myself 

And  all  in  vain  for  her  — cold  heart 
or  none  — 

No  bride  for  me.  Yet  so  my  path 
was  clear 

To  win  the  sister. 

Whom  I woo’d  and  won. 

For  Evelyn  knew  not  of  my  former 
suit, 

Because  the  simple  mother  work’d  upon 

By  Edith  pray’d  me  not  to  whisper  of  it. 

And  Edith  would  be  bridesmaid  on 
the  day. 

But  on  that  day,  not  being  all  at 
ease, 

I from  the  altar  glancing  back  upon 
her, 

Before  the  first  “ I will  ” was  utter’d, 
saw 

The  bridesmaid  pale,  statuelike,  pas- 
sionless — 

“No  harm,  no  harm  ” I turn’d  again, 
and  placed 

My  ring  upon  the  finger  of  my  bride. 

So,  when  we  parted,  Edith  spoke 
no  word, 

She  wept  no  tear,  but  round  my 
Evelyn  clung 

In  utter  silence  for  so  long,  I thought 

“ What,  will  she  never  set  her  sister 
free  ? ” 

We  left  her,  happy  each  in  each, 
and  then. 

As  tho’  the  happiness  of  each  in  each 

Were  not  enough,  must  fain  have  tor- 
rents, lakes, 

Hills,  the  great  things  of  Nature  and 
the  fair, 

To  lift  us  as  it  were  from  common- 
place, 

And  help  us  to  our  joy.  Better  have 
sent 

Our  Edith  thro’  the  glories  of  the 
earth, 

To  change  with  her  horizon,  if  true 
Love 

Were  not  his  own  imperial  all-in-all. 


Far  off  we  went.  My  God,  I would 
not  live 

Save  that  I think  this  gross  hard- 
seeming  world 

Is  our  misshaping  vision  of  the  Powers 

Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 
our  gains. 

For  on  the  dark  night  of  our  mar 
riage-day 

The  great  Tragedian,  that  had 
quench’d  herself 

In  that  assumption  of  the  bridesmaid 
— she 

That  loved  me  — our  true  Edith  — 
her  brain  broke 

With  over-acting,  till  she  rose  and 
fled 

Beneath  a pitiless  rush  of  Autumn 
rain 

To  the  deaf  church  — to  be  let  in  — 
to  pray 

Before  that  altar  — so  I think  ; and 
there 

They  found  her  beating  the  hard  Pro- 
testant doors. 

She  died  and  she  was  buried  ere  we 
knew. 

I learnt  it  first.  I had  to  speak. 
At  once 

The  bright  quick  smile  of  Evelyn, 
that  had  sunn’d 

The  morning  of  our  marriage,  past 
away  : 

And  on  our  home-return  the  daily 
want 

Of  Edith  in  the  house,  the  garden, 
still 

Haunted  us  like  her  ghost;  and  by 
and  by, 

Either  from  that  necessity  for  talk 

Which  lives  with  blindness,  or  plain 
innocence 

Of  nature,  or  desire  that  her  lost 
child 

Should  earn  from  both  the  praise  of 
heroism, 

The  mother  broke  her  promise  to  the 
dead, 

And  told  the  living  daughter  with 
what  love 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR , THE  ENTAIL. 


689 


Edith  had  welcomed  my  brief  wooing 
of  her, 

And  all  her  sweet  self-sacrifice  and 
death. 

Henceforth  that  mystic  bond  be- 
twixt the  twins  — 

Did  I not  tell  you  they  were  twins  ? 

— prevail’d 

So  far  that  no  caress  could  win  my 
wife 

Back  to  that  passionate  answer  of  full 
heart 

I had  from  her  at  first.  Not  that  her 
love, 

Tho’  scarce  as  great  as  Edith’s  power 
of  love, 

Had  lessen’d,  but  the  mother’s  gar- 
rulous wail 

For  ever  woke  the  unhappy  Past 
again, 

Till  that  dead  bridesmaid,  meant  to 
be  my  bride, 

Put  forth  cold  hands  between  us,  and 
I fear’d 

The  very  fountains  of  her  life  were 
chill’d ; 

So  took  her  thence,  and  brought  her 
here,  and  here 

She  bore  a child,  whom  reverently  we 
call’d 

Edith ; and  in  the  se'cond  year  was 
born 

A second  — this  I named  from  her 
own  self, 

Evelyn ; then  two  weeks  — no  more 

— she  joined, 

In  and  beyond  the  grave,  that  one 
she  loved. 

Now  in  this  quiet  of  declining  life, 

Thro’  dreams  by  night  and  trances  of 
the  day, 

The  sisters  glide  about  me  hand  in 
hand, 

Both  beautiful  alike,  nor  can  I tell 

One  from  the  other,  no,  nor  care  to  tell 

One  from  the  other,  only  know  they 
come, 

They  smile  upon  me,  till,  remembering 
all 

The  love  they  both  have  borne  me, 
and  the  love 


I bore  them  both  — divided  as  I am 

From  either  by  the  stillness  of  the 
grave  — 

I know  not  which  of  these  I love  the 
best. 

But  you  love  Edith;  and  her  own 
true  eyes 

Are  traitors  to  her ; our  quick  Ev- 
elyn — 

The  merrier,  prettier,  wittier,  as  they 
talk, 

And  not  without  good  reason,  my 
good  son  — 

Is  yet  untouch’d : and  I that  hold 
them  both 

Dearest  of  all  things  — well,  I am  not 
sure  — 

But  if  there  lie  a preference  either  way, 

And  in  the  rich  vocabulary  of  Love 

“ Most  dearest  ” be  a true  superla- 
tive — 

I think  I likewise  love  your  Edith 
most. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR, 
THE  ENTAIL.  1 

i. 

’Ouse-keeper  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur 
New  Squire  coom’d  last  night. 
Butter  an’  heggs  — yis  — yis.  I’ll 
goa  wi’  tha  back  : all  right  ; 
Butter  I warrants  be  prime,  an’  I war- 
rants the  heggs  be  as  well, 
Hafe  a pint  o’  milk  runs  out  when  ya 
breaks  the  shell. 

ii. 

Sit  thysen  down  fur  a bit : hev  a glass 
o’  cowslip  wine ! 

I liked  the  owd  Squire  an’  ’is  gells  as 
thaw  they  was  gells  o’  mine, 
Fur  then  we  was  all  es  one,  the  Squire 
an’  ’is  darters  an’  me, 

Hall  but  Miss  Annie,  the  heldest,  I 
niver  not  took  to  she  : 

But  Nelly,  the  last  of  the  cletch2  I 
liked  ’er  the  fust  on  ’em  all, 

1 See  note  to  “ Northern  Cobbler.” 

2 A brood  of  chickens. 


690 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR,  THE  ENTAIL. 


Fur  hoffens  we  talkt  o’  my  darter  es 
died  o’  the  fever  at  fall : 

An’  I thowt  ’twur  the  will  o’  the  Lord, 
but  Miss  Annie  she  said  it  wur 
draains, 

Fur  she  hedn’t  naw  coomfut  in  ’er,  an’ 
arn’d  naw  thanks  fur  ’er  paains. 

Eh ! tliebbe  all  wi’  the  Lord  my  childer, 
I han’t  gotten  none  ! 

Sa  new  Squire’s  coom’d  wi’  ’is  taail  in 
’is  ’and,  an’  owd  Squire’s  gone. 

iii. 

Fur  ’staate  be  i’  taail,  my  lass  : tha 
dosn’  knaw  what  that  be  ? 

But  I knaws  the  law,  I does,  for  the 
lawyer  ha  towd  it  me. 

“ When  theer’s  naw  ’ead  to  a ’Ouse  by 
the  fault  o’  that  ere  maale  — 

The  gells  they  counts  fur  nowt,  and 
the  next  un  he  taakes  the  taail.” 

IV. 

What  be  the  next  un  like  ? can  tha 
tell  ony  harm  on  ’im  lass  % — 

Naay  sit  down  — naw  ’urry  — sa 
cowd  ! — hev  another  glass  ! 

Straange  an’  cowd  fur  the  time  ! we 
may  happen  a fall  o’  snaw  — 

Not  es  I cares  fur  to  hear  ony  harm, 
but  I likes  to  knaw. 

An’  I ’oaps  es  ’e  beant  boooklarn’d : 
but  ’e  dosn’  not  coom  fro’  the 
shere ; 

We’  anew  o’  that  wi’  the  Squire,  an’ 
we  haates  boooklarnin’  ere. 

v. 

Fur  Squire  wur  a Varsity  scholard,  an’ 
niver  lookt  arter  the  land  — 

Whoats  or  turmuts  or  taates  — e’  ’ed 
hallus  a boook  i’  ’is  ’and, 

Hallus  aloan  wi’  ’is  boooks,  thaw  nigh 
upo’  seventy  year. 

An’  boooks,  what’s  boooks  1 thou 
knaws  thebbe  neyther  ’ere  nor 
theer. 

VI. 

An’  the  gells,  they  hadn’t  naw  taails, 
an’  the  lawyer  he  towd  it  me 


That  ’is  taail  were  soa  tied  up  es  he 
couldn’t  cut  down  a tree  ! 

“ Drat  the  trees,”  says  I,  to  be  sewer  I 
haates  ’em,  my  lass, 

Fur  we  puts  the  muck  o’  the  land  an’ 
they  sucks  the  muck  fro’  the 
grass. 

VII. 

An’  Squire  wur  hallus  a-smilin’,  an’ 
gied  to  the  tramps  goin’  by  — 
An’  all  o’  the  wust  i’  the  parish  — wi’ 
hoffens  a drop  in  ’is  eye. 

An’  ivry  darter  o’  Squire’s  hed  her 
awn  ridin-erse  to  ’ersen, 

An’  they  rampaged  about  wi’  their 
grooms,  an’  was  ’untin’  arter 
the  men, 

An’  hallus  a-dallackt 1 an’  dizen’d  out, 
an’  a-buyin’  new  cloathes, 
While  ’e  sit  like  a graat  glimmer- 
gowk2  wi’  ’is  glasses  athurt  ’is 
noase, 

An’  ’is  noase  sa  grafted  wi’  snuff  as  it 
couldn’t  be  scroob’d  awaay, 
Fur  atween  ’is  readin’  an’  writin’  ’e 
snifft  up  a box  in  a daay, 

An’  ’e  niver  runn’d  arter  the  fox,  nor 
arter  the  birds  wi’  ’is  gun, 

An’  ’e  niver  not  shot  one  ’are,  but  ’e 
leaved  it  to  Charlie  ’is  son, 

An’  ’e  niver  not  fish’d  ’is  awn  ponds, 
but  Charlie  ’e  cotch’d  the  pike, 
For  ’e  warn’t  not  burn  to  the  land,  an’ 
’e  didn’t  take  kind  to  it  like  ; 
But  I ears  es  ’e’d  gie  fur  a howry  3 owd 
book  thutty  pound  an’  moor, 
An’  ’e’d  wrote  an  owd  book,  his  awn 
sen,  sa  I knaw’d  es  ’e  d coom 
to  be  poor ; 

An’  ’e  gied — I be  fear’d  to  tell  tha  ’ow 
much  — fur  an  owd  scratted 
stoan, 

An’  ’e  digg’d  up  a loomp  i’  the  land 
an’  ’e  got  a brown  pot  an’  a 
boan, 

An’  ’e  bowt  owd  money,  es  wouldn’t 
goii,  wi’  good  gowd  o’  the 
Queen, 

1 Overdressed  in  gay  colors.  2 Owl. 

3 Filthy. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE;  OR,  THE  ENTAIL- 


691 


An’  ’e  bowt  little  statutes  all-naiikt 
an’  which  was  a shaame  to  be 
seen  ; 

But  ’e  niver  loodkt  ower  a bill,  nor  ’e 
niver  not  seed  to  owt, 

An’  ’e  niver  knawd  nowt  but  boodks, 
an’  boodks,  as  thou  knaws, 
beant  nowt. 

Till. 

But  owd  Squire’s  laady  es  long  es  she 
lived  she  kep  ’em  all  clear, 
Thaw  es  long  es  she  lived  I never  hed 
none  of  ’er  darters  ’ere ; 

But  arter  she  died  we  was  all  es  one, 
the  childer  an’  me, 

An’  sarvints  runn’d  in  an’  out,  an’ 
offens  we  hed  ’em  to  tea. 

Lawk  ! ’ow  I laugh’d  when  the  lasses 
’ud  talk  o’  their  Missis’s  waays, 
An’  the  Missisis  talk’d  o’  the  lasses. — 
I’ll  tell  tha  some  o’  these  daays. 
Hoanly  Miss  Annie  were  saw  stuck 
oop,  like  ’er  mother  afoor  — 
’Er  an’  ’er  blessed  darter  — they  niver 
derken’d  my  door. 

IX. 

An’  Squire  ’e  smiled  an’  ’e  smiled  till 
’e’d  gotten  a fright  at  last, 

An’  ’e  calls  fur  ’is  son,  fur  the  ’turney’s 
letters  they  foller’d  sa  fast ; 
But  Squire  wur  afear’d  o’  ’is  son, 
an’  ’e  says  to  ’im,  meek  as  a 
mouse, 

“ Lad,  thou  mun  cut  off  thy  taail,  or 
the  gells  ’ull  goa  to  the  ’Ouse, 
Eur  I finds  es  I be  that  i’  debt,  es  I 
’oaps  es  thou’ll  ’elp  me  a bit, 
An’  if  thou’ll  ’gree  to  cut  off  thy  taail 
I may  saave  mysen  yit.” 

x. 

But  Charlie  ’e  sets  back  ’is  ears,  ’an  ’e 
swears,  an’  ’e  says  to  im  “ Noa. 
I’ve  gotten  the  ’staate  by  the  taail  an’ 
be  dang’d  if  I iver  let  goa ! 
Coom  ! coom  ! feyther,”  ’e  says,  “ why 
shouldn’t  thy  boodks  be  sowd  ? 
I hears  es  soom  o’  thy  boodks  mebbe 
worth  their  weight  i’  gowd.” 


XI. 

Heaps  an’  heaps  o’  boodks,  I ha’  see’d 
’em,  belong’d  to  the  Squire, 
But  the  lasses  ’ed  teard  out  leaves  i’ 
the  middle  to  kindle  the  fire  ; 
Sa  moast  on  ’is  owd  big  boodks  fetch’d 
nigh  to  nowt  at  the  saale, 

And  Squire  were  at  Charlie  ageiin  to 
git  ’im  to  cut  off  ’is  taail. 

XII. 

Ya  wouldn’t  find  Charlie’s  likes  — ’e 
were  that  outdacious  at  oam, 
Not  thaw  yawent  fur  to  raiike  out  Hell 
wi’  a small-tooth  eoamb  — 
Droonk  wi’  the  Quoloty’s  wine,  an’ 
droonk  wi’  the  farmer’s  aale, 
Mad  wi’  the  lasses  an’  all  — an’  ’e 
wouldn’t  cut  off  the  taail. 

XIII. 

Thou’s  coom’d  oop  by  the  beck  ; and 
a thurn  be  a-grawin’  theer, 

I niver  ha  seed  it  sa  white  wi’  the 
Maay  es  I see’d  it  to-year  — 
Theerabouts  Charlie  joompt  — and  it 
gied  me  a scare  tother  night, 
Fur  I thowt  it  wur  Charlie’s  ghoast  i’ 
the  derk,  fur  it  loodkt  sa  white. 
“Billy,”  says  ’e,  “ hev  a joomp!”  — 
thaw  the  banks  o’  the  beck  be 
sa  high, 

Fur  he  ca’d  ’is  ’erse  Billy-rough-un, 
thaw  niver  a hair  wur  awry  ; 
But  Billy  fell  bakkuds  o’  Charlie,  an’ 
Charlie  ’e  brok  ’is  neck, 

Sa  theer  wur  a hend  o’  the  taail,  fur 
’e  lost  ’is  taail  i’  the  beck. 

XIV. 

Sa  ’is  taail  wur  lost  an’  ’is  boodks  wur 
gone  an’  ’is  boy  wur  dead, 

An’  Squire  ’e  smiled  an’  ’e  smiled,  but 
’e  niver  not  lift  oop  ’is  ’ead  : 
Hallus  a soft  un  Squire ! an’  ’e  smiled, 
fur  ’e  hedn’t  naw  friend, 

Sa  feyther  an’  son  was  buried  togither, 
an’  this  wur  the  hend. 

xv. 

An’  Parson  as  hesn’t  the  call,  nor  the 
mooney,  but  hes  the  pride, 


692 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 


’E  reads  of  a sewer  an’  sartan  ’oap  o’ 
the  tother  side; 

But  I beant  that  sewer  es  the  Lord, 
howsiver  they  praay’d  an’ 
praay’d, 

Lets  them  inter  ’eaven  easy  es  leaves 
their  debts  to  be  paaid. 

Siver  the  mou’ds  rattled  down  upo’ 
poor  owd  Squire  i’  the  wood, 
An’  I cried  along  wi’  the  gells,  fur 
they  weant  niver  coom  to  naw 
good. 

XVI. 

Fur  Molly  the  long  un  she  walkt 
awaay  wi’  a hofficer  lad, 

An’  nawbody  ’eard  on  ’er  sin,  sa  o’ 
coorse  she  be  gone  to  the  bad ! 
An’  Lucy  wur  laame  o’  one  leg,  sweet- 
’arts  she  niver  ’ed  none  — 
Straiinge  an’  unheppen1  Miss  Lucy! 
we  naamed  her  “ Dot  an’  gaw 
one  ! ” 

An’  Hetty  wur  weak  i’  the  hattics, 
wi’out  ony  harm  i’  the  legs, 

An’  the  fever  ’ed  baaked  Jinny’s  ’ead 
as  bald  as  one  o’  them  heggs, 
An’  Nelly  wur  up  fro’  the  craadle  as 
big  i’  the  mouth  as  a cow, 

An’  saw  she  mun  hammergrate,2  lass, 
or  she  weant  git  a maate  ony- 
how ! 

An’  es  for  Miss  Annie  es  call’d  me 
afoor  my  awn  foalks  to  my 
faace 

“A  hignorant  village  wife  as  ’ud  hev 
to  be  larn’d  her  awn  plaace,” 
Hes  for  Miss  Hannie  the  heldest  hes 
now  be  a grawin  sa  howd, 

I knaws  that  mooch  o’  shea,  es  it  beant 
not  fit  to  be  towd  ! 

XVII. 

Sa  I didn’t  not  taake  it  kindly  ov  owd 
Miss  Annie  to  saay 
Es  I should  be  talkin  agean  ’em,  es 
soon  es  they  went  awaay, 

Fur,  lawks ! ’ow  I cried  when  they 
went,  an’  our  Nelly  she  gied  me 
’er  ’and, 

1 Ungainly,  awkward.  2 Emigrate. 


Fur  I’d  ha  done  owt  for  the  Squire  an’ 
’is  gells  es  belong’d  to  the  land ; 

Boooks,  es  I said  afoor,  thebbe  ney- 
ther  ’ere  nor  theer ! 

But  I sarved  ’em  wi’  butter  an’  heggs 
fur  huppuds  o’  twenty  year. 

XVIII. 

An’  they  hallus  paaid  what  I hax’d, 
sa  I hallus  deal’d  wi’  the  Hall, 

An’  they  knaw’d  what  butter  wur,  an’ 
they  knaw’d  what  a hegg  wur 
an’  all ; 

Hugger-mugger  they  lived,  but  they 
wasn’t  that  easy  to  please, 

Till  I gied  ’em  Hinjian  curn,  an’  they 
laaid  big  heggs  es  tha  seeas ; 

An’  I niver  puts  saame 1 i’  my  butter, 
they  does  it  at  Willis’s  farm, 

Taaste  another  drop  o’  the  wine  — 
tweant  do  tha  na  harm. 

XIX. 

Sa  new  Squire’s  coom’d  wi’  ’is  taail  in 
’is  ’and,  an’  owd  Squire’s  gone; 

I heard  ’im  a roomlin’  by,  but  arter 
my  nightcap  wur  on  ; 

Sa  I han’t  clapt  eyes  on  ’im  yit,  fur  he 
coom’d  last  night  sa  laiite  — 

Pluksh! ! !2  the  hens  i’  the  peas!  why 
didn’t  tha  hesp  tha  gaate  ? 


IN  THE  CHILDREN’S 
HOSPITAL. 

EMMIE. 


Our  doctor  had  call’d  in  another,  I 
never  had  seen  him  before, 

But  he  sent  a chill  to  my  heart  when 
I saw  him  come  in  at  the  door, 
Fresh  from  the  surgery-schools  of 
France  and  of  other  lands  — 
Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chest, 
big  merciless  hands ! 
Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O yes, 
but  they  said  too  of  him 

1 Lard. 

2 A cry  accompanied  by  a clapping  of  hands 
to  scare  trespassing  fowl. 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 


693 


He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than 
in  trying  to  save  the  limb, 

And  that  i can  well  believe,  for  he 
look’d  so  coarse  and  so  red, 

I could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who 
■would  break  their  jests  on  the 
dead, 

And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had 
loved  him  and  fawn’d  at  his 
knee  — 

Drench’d  with  the  hellish  oorali  — that 
ever  such  things  should  be  ! 

n. 

Here  was  a boy  — I am  sure  that  some 
of  our  children  would  die 
But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the 
smile,  and  the  comforting  eye  — 
Here  was  a boy  in  the  ward,  every 
bone  seem’d  out  of  its  place  — 
Caught  in  a mill  and  crush’d  — it  was 
all  but  a hopeless  case : 

And  he  handled  him  gently  enough; 
but  his  voice  and  his  face  were 
not  kind, 

And  it  was  but  a hopeless  case,  he 
had  seen  it  and  made  up  his 
mind, 

And  he  said  to  me  roughly  “ The  lad 
will  need  little  more  of  your 
care.” 

“ All  the  more  need,”  I told  him,  “ to 
seek  the  Lord  Jesus  in  praye"  ; 
They  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I 
pray  for  them  all  as  my  own  : ” 
But  he  turn’d  to  me,  “Ay,  good  woman, 
can  prayer  set  a broken  bone?” 
Then  he  mutter’d  half  to  himself,  but 
I know  that  I heard  him  say 
“All  very  well  — but  the  good  Lord 
Jesus  has  had  his  day.” 

hi. 

Had  ? has  it  come  ? It  has  only 
dawn’d.  It  will  come  by  and 

by- 

0 how  could  I serve  in  the  wards  if  the 
hope  of  the  world  were  a lie  ? 
How  could  I bear  with  the  sights  and 
the  loathsome  smells  of  disease 
But  that  He  said  “Ye  do  it  to  me, 
when  ye  do  it  to  these  ” ? 


IV. 

So  he  went.  And  we  past  to  this 
ward  where  the  younger  chil- 
dren are  laid  : 

Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  dar- 
ling, our  meek  little  maid; 

Empty  you  see  just  now!  We  have 
lost  her  who  loved  her  so 
much  — 

Patient  of  pain  tho’  as  quick  as  a sen- 
sitive plant  to  the' touch  ; 

Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often 
moved  me  to  tears, 

Hers  was  the  gratefullest  heart  I have 
found  in  a child  of  her  years  — 

Nay  you  remember  our  Emmie;  you 
used  to  send  her  the  flowers ; 

How  she  would  smile  at  ’em,  play 
with  ’em,  talk  to  ’em  hours 
after  hours ! 

They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the 
works  of  the  Lord  are  reveal’d 

Little  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from 
a cowslip  out  of  the  fields ; 

Flowers  to  these  “ spirits  in  prison  ” 
are  all  they  can  know  of  the 
spring, 

They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards 
like  the  waft  of  an  Angel’s 
wing ; 

And  she  lay  with  a flower  in  one  hand 
and  her  thin  hands  crost  on  her 
breast  — 

Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  heart  can  de- 
sire, and  we  thought  her  at  rest, 

Quietly  sleeping  — so  quiet,  our  doc- 
tor said  “ Poor  little  dear, 

Nurse,  I must  do  it  to-morrow ; she’ll 
never  live  thro’  it,  I fear.” 

v. 

I walk’d  with  our  kindly  old  doctor  as 
far  as  the  head  of  the  stair, 

Then  I return’d  to  the  ward ; the  child 
didn’t  see  I was  there. 

VI. 

Never  since  I was  nurse,  had  I been 
so  grieved  and  so  vext ! 

Emmie  had  heard  him.  Softly  she 
call’d  from  her  cot  to  the  next, 


694 


DEDICATORY  POEM  TO  THE  PRINCESS  ALICE. 


“ He  says  I shall  never  live  thro’  it,  0 
Annie,  what  shall  I do  1 ” 
Annie  consider’d.  “If  I,”  said  the 
wise  little  Annie,  “ was  you, 

I should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to 
help  me,  for,  Emmie,  you  see, 
It’s  all  in  the  picture  there;  ‘Little 
children  should  come  to  me.’  ” 
(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us, 
I find  that  it  always  can  please 
Our  children,  the  dear  Lord  Jesus 
with  children  about  his  knees.) 
“ Yes,  and  I will,”  said  Emmie,  “ but 
then  iM  call  to  the  Lord, 

How  should  he  know  that  it’s  me  q 
such  a lot  of  beds  in  the  ward  ! ” 
That  was  a puzzle  for  Annie.  Again 
she  consider’d  and  said : 
“Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and 
you  leave  ’em  outside  on  the 
bed  — 

The  Lord  has  so  much  to  see  to ! hut, 
Emmie,  you  tell  it  him  plain, 
It’s  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying 
out  on  the  counterpane.” 

VII. 

I had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child  — 
I could  not  watch  her  for  four  — 
My  brain  had  begun  to  reel  — I felt  I 
could  do  it  no  more. 

That  was  my  sleeping-night,  but  I 
thought  that  it  never  would 
pass. 

There  was  a thunderclap  once,  and  a 
clatter  of  hail  on  the  glass, 
And  there  was  a phantom  cry  that  I 
heard  as  I tost  about, 

The  motherless  bleat  of  a lamb  in  the 
storm  and  the  darkness  with- 
out; 

My  sleep  was  broken  beside  with 
dreams  of  the  dreadful  knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who 
scarce  would  escape  with  her 
life; 

Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it 
seem’d  she  stood  by  me  and 
smiled, 

And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and 
we  went  to  see  to  the  child. 


VIII. 

He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools  : we 
believed  her  asleep  again  — 

Her  dear,  long,  lean,  little  arms  lying 
out  on  the  counterpane  ; 

Say  that  His  day  is  done  ! Ah  why 
should  we  care  what  they  say  ? 

The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard 
her,  and  Emmie  had  past  away. 


DEDICATORY  POEM  TO  THE 
PRINCESS  ALICE. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that, 
which  lived 

True  life,  live  on  — and  if  the  fatal 
kiss, 

Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce 
thee  not 

From  earthly  love  and  life  — if  what 
we  call 

The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from 
out 

This  shadow  into  Substance  — the.n 
perhaps 

The  mellow’d  murmur  of  the  people’s 
praise 

From  thine  own  State,  and  all  our 
breadth  of  realm, 

Where  Love  and  Longing  dress  thy 
deeds  in  light, 

Ascends  to  thee ; and  this  March 
morn  that  sees 

Thy  Soldier-brother’s  bridal  orange- 
bloom 

Break  thro’  the  yews  and  cypress  of 
thy  grave, 

And  thine  Imperial  mother  smile 
again, 

May  send  one  ray  to  thee ! and  who 
can  tell- — 

Thou  — England’s  England  - loving 
daughter  — thou 

Dying  so  English  thou  wouldst  have 
her  flag 

Borne  on  thy  coffin  — where  is  he  can 
swear 

But  that  some  broken  gleam  from  our 
poor  earth 

May  touch  thee,  while  remembering 
thee,  I lay 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 


695 


At  thy  pale  feet  this  ballad  of  the 
deeds 

Of  England,  and  her  banner  in  the 
East  ? 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 


Banner  of  England,  not  for  a season, 
O banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou 
Floated  in  conquering  battle  or  flapt 
to  the  battle-cry ! 

Never  with  mightier  glory  than  when 
we  had  rear’d  thee  on  high 
Flying  at  top  of  the  roofs  in  the 
ghastly  siege  of  Lucknow  — 
Shot  thro’  the  staff  or  the  halyard, 
but  ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 

ii. 

Frail  were  the  works  that  defended 
the  hold  that  we  held  with  our 
lives  — 

Women  and  children  among  us,  God 
help  them,  our  children  and 
wives ! 

Hold  it  we  might  — and  for  fifteen 
days  or  for  twenty  at  most. 
“Never  surrender,  I charge  you,  but 
every  man  die  at  his  post ! ” 
Voice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved, 
our  Lawrence  the  best  of  the 
brave : 

Cold  were  his  brows  when  we  kiss’d 
him  — we  laid  him  that  night 
in  his  grave. 

“ Every  man  die  at  his  post ! ” and 
there  hail’d  on  our  houses  and 
halls 

Death  from  their  rifle-bullets,  and 
death  from  their  cannon-balls, 
Death  in  our  innermost  chamber,  and 
death  at  our  slight  barricade, 
Death  while  we  stood  with  the  mus- 
ket, and  death  while  we  stoopt 
to  the  spade, 

Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to 
the  wounded,  for  often  there 
fell, 


Striking  the  hospital  wall,  crashing 
thro’  it,  their  shot  and  their 
shell, 

Death  — for  their  spies  were  among 
us,  their  marksmen  were  told 
of  our  best, 

So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro’ 
the  brain  that  could  think  for 
the  rest ; 

Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreheads, 
and  bullets  would  rain  at  our 
feet  — 

Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the 
rebels  that  girdled  us  round  — 

Death  at  the  glimpse  of  a finger  from 
over  the  breadth  of  a street, 

Death  from  the  heights  of  the  mosque 
and  the  palace,  and  death  in 
ground  ! 

Mine  ? yes,  a mine ! Countermine  ! 
down,  dowrn ! and  creep  thro’ 
the  hole ! 

Keep  the  revolver  in  hand ! you  can 
hear  him — themurderous  mole! 

Quiet,  ah!  quiet  — wait  till  the  point 
of  the  pickaxe  be  thro’ ! 

Click  with  the  pick,  coming  nearer 
and  nearer  again  than  before  — 

Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the 
dark  pioneer  is  no  more  ; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew  ! 


hi. 

Ay,  but  the  foe  sprung  his  mine  many 
times,  and  it  chanced  on  a day 
Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground 
thunderclap  echo’d  away, 

Dark  thro’  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur 
like  so  many  fiends  in  their 
hell  — 

Cannon-shot,  musket-shot,  volley  on 
volley,  and  yell  upon  yell  — 
Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myr- 
iad enemy  fell. 

What  have  they  done  ? where  is  it? 

Out  yonder.  Guard  the  Redan ! 
Storm  at  the  W ater-gate  ! storm  at  the 
Bailey-gate  ! storm,  and  it  ran 
Surging  and  swaying  all  round  us,  as 
ocean  on  every  side 


696 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 


Plunges  and  heaves  at  a bank  that  is 
daily  drown’d  by  the  tide  — 

So  many  thousands  that  if  they  be  bold 
enough,  who  shall  escape  ? 

Kill  or  be  kill’d,  live  or  die,  they  shall 
know  we  are  soldiers  and  men  ! 
Ready ! take  aim  at  their  leaders  — 
their  masses  are  gapp’d  with 
our  grape  — 

Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like 
the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 
Plying  and  foil’d  at  the  last  by  the 
handful  they  could  not  subdue  ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 


IV. 

Handful  of  men  as  we  were,  we  were 
English  in  heart  and  in  limb, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race 
to  command,  to  obey,  to  endure, 
Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the 
garrison  hung  but  on  him  ; 

Still  — could  we  watch  at  all  points  ? 
we  were  every  day  fewer  and 
fewer. 

There  was  a whisper  among  us,  but 
only  a whisper  that  past : 

“ Children  and  wives  — if  the  tigers 
leap  into  the  fold  unawares  — 
Every  man  die  at  his  post — and  the 
foe  may  outlive  us  at  last  — 
Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they 
love,  than  to  fall  into  theirs  ! ” 
Roar  upon  roar  in  a moment  two 
mines  by  the  enemy  sprung 
Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls 
and  our  poor  palisades. 
Rifleman,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be 
sure  that  your  hand  be  as  true  ! 
Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault, better  aimed 
are  your  flank  fusillades  — 
Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from 
the  ladders  to  which  they  had 
clung, 

Twicfe  from  the  ditch  where  they  shel- 
ter we  drive  them  with  hand- 
grenades  ; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 


v. 

Then  on  another  wild  morning  another 
wild  earthquake  out-tore 
Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or 
twelve  good  paces  or  more. 
Rifleman,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden 
there  from  the  light  of  the 
sun  — 

One  has  leapt  up  on  the  beach,  crying 
out : “Follow  me, follow  me!  ” — 
Mark  him  — he  falls  ! then  another, 
and  him  too,  and  down  goes  he. 
Had  they  been  bold  enough  then,  who 
can  tell  but  the  traitors  had 
won  ? 

Boardings  and  rafters  and  doors  — an 
embrasure ! make  way  for  the 
gun  ! 

Now  double-charge  it  with  grape  ! It 
is  charged  and  we  fire,  and  they 
run. 

Praise  to  our  Indian  brothers,  and  let 
the  dark  face  have  his  due ! 
Thanks  to  the  kindly  dark  faces  who 
fought  with  us,  faithful  and  few, 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us, 
and  drove  them,  and  smote 
them,  and  slew, 

That  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  in  India  blew. 

VI. 

Men  will  forget  what  we  suffer  and 
not  what  we  do.  We  can  fight ! 
But  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  senti- 
nel all  thro’  the  night  — 

Ever  the  mine  and  assault,  our  sallies, 
their  lying  alarms, 

Bugles  and  drums  in  the  darkness,  and 
shoutings  and  soundings  to 
arms, 

Ever  the  labor  of  fifty  that  had  to  be 
done  by  five, 

Ever  the  marvel  among  us  that  one 
should  be  left  alive, 

Ever  the  day  with  its  traitorous  death 
from  the  loopholes  around, 
Ever  the  night  with  its  coflmless 
corpse  to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 
Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a hell,  or  a 
deluge  of  cataract  skies, 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COB  HAM. 


697 


Stench  of  old  offal  decaying,  and  in- 
finite torment  of  flies, 
Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blow- 
ing over  an  English  field, 
Cholera,  scurvy,  and  fever,  the  wound 
that  would  not  be  heal’d, 
Lopping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pit- 
iful-pitiless knife,  — 

Torture  and  trouble  in  vain,  — for  it 
never  could  save  us  a life. 
Valor  of  delicate  women  who  tended 
the  hospital  bed, 

Horror  of  women  in  travail  among 
the  dying  and  dead, 

Grief  for  our  perishing  children,  and 
never  a moment  for  grief, 

Toil  and  ineffable  weariness,  faltering 
hopes  of  relief, 

Havelock  baffled,  or  beaten,  or  butch- 
er’d for  all  that  we  knew  — 
Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night, 
coming  down  on  the  still-shat- 
ter’d  walls 

Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thou- 
sands of  cannon-balls  — 

But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 

VII. 

Hark  cannonade,  fusillade  ! is  it  true 
what  was  told  by  the  scout, 
Outram  and  Havelock  breaking  their 
way  through  the  fell  mutineers? 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ring- 
ing again  in  our  ears  ! 

All  on  a sudden  the  garrison  utter  a 
jubilant  shout, 

Havelock’s  glorious  Highlanders  an- 
swer with  conquering  cheers, 
Sick  from  the  hospital  echo  them, 
women  and  children  come  out. 
Blessing  the  wholesome  white  faces 
of  Havelock’s  good  fusileers, 
Kissing  the  war-harden’d  hand  of  the 
Highlanderwetwith  their  tears! 
Dance  to  the  pibroch  ! — saved  ! we  are 
saved!  — is  it  you  ? is  it  you? 
Saved  by  the  valor  of  Havelock,  saved 
by  the  blessing  of  Heaven  ! 

“ Hold  it  for  fifteen  days  ! ” we  have 
held  it  for  eighty-seven  ! 


And  ever  aloft  on  the  palace  roof  the 
old  banner  of  England  blew. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD 
COBIIAM. 

(in  wales.) 

My  friend  should  meet  me  somewhere 
hereabout 

To  take  me  to  that  hiding  in  the  hills. 

I have  broke  their  cage,  no  gilded 
one,  I trow  — 

I read  no  more  the  prisoner’s  mute  wail 

Scribbled  or  carved  upon  the  pitiless 
stone; 

I find  hard  rocks,  hard  life,  hard  cheer, 
or  none, 

For  I am  emptier  than  a friar’s  brains ; 

But  God  is  with  me  in  this  wilderness, 

These  wet  black  passes  and  foam- 
churning  chasms  — 

And  God’s  free  air,  and  hope  of  bet- 
ter things. 

I would  I knew  their  speech;  not 
now  to  glean, 

Not  now  — I hope  to  do  it — some 
scatter’d  ears, 

Some  ears  for  Christ  in  this  wild  field 
of  Wales  — 

But,  bread,  merely  for  bread.  This 
tongue  that  wagg’d 

They  said  with  such  heretical  arro- 
gance 

Against  the  proud  archbishop  Arun- 
del— 

So  much  God’s  cause  was  fluent  in  it 
— is  here 

But  as  a Latin  Bible  to  the  crowd ; 

“ Bara  ! ” — what  use  ? The  Shepherd, 
when  I speak, 

Vailing  a sudden  eyelid  with  his  hard 

“ Dim  Saesrieg  ” passes,  wroth  at 
things  of  old  — 

No  fault  of  mine.  Had  he  God’s  word 
in  Welsh 

He  might  be  kindlier : happily  come 
the  day! 

Not  least  art  thou,  thou  little  Bethle- 
hem 


698 


SIR  JOHN  OLD  CASTLE,  LORD  COB  HAM. 


In  Judah,  form  thee  the  Lord  was  born; 
Nor  thou  in  Britain,  little  Lutterworth, 
Least,  for  in  thee  the  word  was  born 
again. 

Heaven-sweet  Evangel,  ever-living 
word, 

Who  whilome  spakest  to  the  South  in 
Greek 

About  the  soft  Mediterranean  shores, 
And  then  in  Latin  to  the  Latin  crowd, 
As  good  need  was  — thou  hast  come 
to  talk  our  isle. 

Hereafter  thou,  fulfilling  Pentecost, 
Must  learn  to  use  the  tongues  of  all 
the  world. 

Yet  art  thou  thine  own  witness  that 
thou  bringest 
Not  peace,  a sword,  a fire. 

What  did  he  say, 
My  frighted  Wiclif-preacher  whom  I 
crost 

In  flying  hither?  that  one  night  a 
crowd 

Throng’d  the  waste  field  about  the 
city  gates : 

The  king  was  on  them  suddenly  with 
a host. 

Why  there  ? they  came  to  hear  their 
preacher.  Then 

Some  cried  on  Cobham,  on  the  good 
Lord  Cobham ; 

Ay,  for  they  love  me ! but  the  king  — 
nor  voice 

Nor  finger  raised  against  him — took 
and  hang’d, 

Took,  hang’d  and  burnt  — how  many 
— thirty-nine  — 

Call’d  it  rebellion  — hang’d,  poor 
friends,  as  rebels 

'And  burn’d  alive  as  heretics ! for 
your  Priest 

Labels  — to  take  the  king  along  with 
him  — 

All  heresy,  treason : but  to  call  men 
traitors 

May  make  men  traitors. 

Rose  of  Lancaster, 
Red  in  thy  birth,  redder  with  house- 
hold war, 

Now  reddest  with  the  blood  of  holy 
men, 


Redder  to  be,  red  rose  of  Lancaster  — 

If  somewhere  in  the  North,  as  Rumor 
sang 

Fluttering  the  hawks  of  this  crown- 
lusting  line  — 

By  firth  and  loch  thy  silver  sister 
grow,1 

That  were  my  rose,  there  my  allegi- 
ance due. 

Self-starved,  they  say  — nay,  mur- 
der’d, doubtless  dead. 

So  to  this  king  I cleaved : my  friend 
was  he, 

Once  my  fast  friend:  I would  have 
given  my  life 

To  help  his  own  from  scathe,  a thou- 
sand lives 

To  save  his  soul.  He  might  have 
come  to  learn 

Our  Wiclif’s  learning:  but  the  worldly 
Priests 

Who  fear  the  king’s  hard  common- 
sense  should  find 

What  rotten  piles  uphold  their  mason- 
work, 

Urge  him  to  foreign  war.  O had  he 
will’d 

I might  have  stricken  a lusty  stroke 
for  him, 

But  he  would  not ; far  liever  led  my 
friend 

Back  to  the  pure  and  universal 
church, 

But  he  would  not : whether  that  heir- 
less flaw 

In  his  throne’s  title  make  him  feel  so 
frail, 

He  leans  on  Antichrist;  or  that  his 
mind, 

So  quick,  so  capable  in  soldiership, 

In  matters  of  the  faith,  alas  the  while! 

More  worth  than  all  the  kingdoms  of 
this  world, 

Runs  in  the  rut,  a coward  to  the 
Priest. 

Burnt  — good  Sir  Roger  Acton,  my 
dear  friend ! 

Burnt  too,  my  faithful  preacher, 
Beverley ! 

1 Richard  II. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COB  HAM. 


699 


Lord  give  thou  power  to  thy  two  wit- 
nesses ! 

Lest  the  false  faith  make  merry  over 
them ! 

Two  — nay  but  thirty-nine  have  risen 
and  stand, 

Dark  with  the  smoke  of  human  sacri- 
fice, 

Before  thy  light,  and  cry  continually — 
Cry  — against  whom  ? 

Him,  who  should  bear  the  sword 
Of  Justice  — what!  the  kingly,  kindly 
boy; 

Who  took  the  world  so  easily  hereto- 
fore, 

My  boon  companion,  tavern-fellow  — 
him 

Who  gibed  and  japed  — in  many  a 
merry  tale 

That  shook  our  sides  — at  Pardoners, 
Summoners, 

Friars,  absolution-sellers,  monkeries 
And  nunneries,  when  the  wild  hour 
and  the  wine 
Had  set  the  wits  aflame. 

Harry  of  Monmouth, 
Or  Amurath  of  the  East  ? 

Better  to  sink 
Thy  fleurs-de-lys  in  slime  again,  and 
fling 

Thy  royalty  back  into  the  riotous  fits 
Of  wine  and  harlotry  — thy  shame, 
and  mine, 

Thy  comrade  — than  to  persecute  the 
Lord, 

And  play  the  Saul  that  never  will  be 
Paul. 

Burnt,  burnt!  and  while  this  mitred 
Arundel 

Dooms  our  unlicensed  preacher  to 
the  flame, 

The  mitre-sanction’d  harlot  draws  his 
clerks 

Into  the  suburb  — their  hard  celibacy, 
Sworn  to  be  veriest  ice  of  pureness, 
molten 

Into  adulterous  living,  or  such  crimes 
As  holy  Paul  — a shame  to  speak  of 
them  — 

Among  the  heathen  — 

Sanctuary  granted 


To  bandit,  thief,  assassin — yea  to  him 

Who  hacks  his  mother’s  throat  — 
denied  to  him, 

Who  finds  the  Saviour  in  his  mother 
tongue. 

The  Gospel,  the  Priest’s  pearl,  flung 
down  to  swine  — 

The  swine,  lay-men,  lay-women,  who 
will  come, 

God  willing,  to  outlearn  the  filthy  friar. 

Ah  rather,  Lord,  than  that  thy 
Gospel,  meant 

To  course  and  range  thro’  all  the 
world,  should  be 

Tether’d  to  these  dead  pillars  of  the 
Church  — 

Rather  than  so,  if  thou  wilt  have 
it  so, 

Burst  vein,  snap  sinew,  and  crack 
heart,  and  life 

Pass  in  the  fire  of  Babylon ! but  how 
long, 

O Lord,  how  long  ! 

My  friend  should  meet  me  here. 

Here  is  the  copse,  the  fountain  and — 
a Cross  ! 

To  thee,  dead  wood,  I bow  not  head 
nor  knees. 

Rather  to  thee,  green  boscage,  work 
of  God, 

Black  holly,  and  white-flower’d  way- 
faring-tree ! 

Rather  to  thee,  thou  living  water, 
drawn 

By  this  good  Wiclif  mountain  down 
from  heaven, 

And  speaking  clearly  in  thy  native 
tongue  — 

No  Latin  — He  that  thirsteth,  come 
and  drink  ! 

Eh  ! how  I anger’d  Arundel  asking 
me 

To  worship  Holy  Cross ! I spread 
mine  arms, 

God’s  work,  I said,  a cross  of  flesh 
and  blood 

And  holier.  That  was  heresy.  (My 
good  friend 

By  this  time  should  be  with  me.) 
“ Images  ? ” 

“ Bury  them  as  God’s  truer  images 


700 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COB  LIAM. 


Are  daily  buried.”  “ Heresy.  — 
Penance  1 ” “ Fast, 

Hairsliirt  and  scourge  — nay,  let  a 
man  repent, 

Do  penance  in  his  heart,  God  hears 
him.”  “ Heresy  — 

Not  shriven,  not  saved  1 ” “ What 

profits  an  ill  Priest 

Between  me  and  my  God  % I would 
not  spurn 

Good  counsel  of  good  friends,  but 
shrive  myself 

No,  not  to  an  Apostle.”  “ Heresy.” 

(My  friend  is  long  in  coming.)  “ Pil- 
grimages ? ” 

Drink,  bagpipes,  revelling,  devil’s- 
dances,  vice. 

The  poor  man’s  money  gone  to  fat  the 
friar. 

Who  reads  of  begging  saints  in  Scrip- 
ture ? ” — “ Heresy  ” — 

(Hath  he  been  here  — not  found  me 
— gone  again  ? 

Have  I mislearnt  our  place  of  meet- 
ing ? ) “ Bread  — 

Bread  left  after  the  blessing  % ” how 
they  stared, 

That  was  their  main  test-question  — 
glared  at  me ! 

“ He  veil’d  himself  in  flesh,  and  now 
He  veils 

His  flesh  in  bread,  body  and  bread 
together.” 

Then  rose  the  howl  of  all  the  cassock’d 
wolves, 

“ No  bread,  no  bread.  God’s  body ! ” 
Archbishop,  Bishop, 

Priors,  Canons,  Friars,  bellringers, 
Parish-clerks  — 

“ No  bread,  no  bread ! ” — “ Authority 
of  the  Church, 

Power  of  the  keys  ! ” — Then  I,  God 
help  me,  I 

So  mock’d,  so  spurn’d,  so  baited  two 
whole  days  — 

I lost  myself  and  fell  from  evenness, 

And  rail’d  at  all  the  Popes,  that  ever 
since 

Sylvester  shed  the  venom  of  world- 
wealth 

Into  the  church,  had  only  prov’n 
themselves 


Poisoners,  murderers.  Well  — God 
pardon  all  — 

Me,  them,  and  all  the  world — yea, 
that  proud  Priest, 

That  mock-meek  mouth  of  utter  Anti- 
christ, 

That  traitor  to  King  Richard  and  the 
truth, 

Who  rose  and  doom’d  me  to  the  fire. 

Amen ! 

Nay,  I can  burn,  so  that  the  Lord  of 
life 

Be  by  me  in  my  death. 

Those  three  ! the  fourth 

Was  like  the  Son  of  God  ! Not  burnt 
were  they. 

On  them  the  smell  of  burning  had  not 
past. 

That  was  a miracle  to  convert  the  king. 

ThesePharisees,thisCaiaphas- Arundel 

What  miracle  could  turn”?  He  here 
again, 

He  thwarting  their  traditions  of  Him- 
self, 

He  would  be  found  a heretic  to  Him- 
self, 

And  doom’d  to  burn  alive. 

So,  caught,  I burn. 

Burn  ? heathen  men  have  borne  as 
much  as  this, 

For  freedom,  or  the  sake  of  those  they 
loved, 

Or  some  less  cause,  some  cause  far 
less  than  mine ; 

For  every  other  cause  is  less  than 
mine. 

The  moth  will  singe  her  wings,  and 
singed  return, 

Her  love  of  light  quenching  her  fear 
of  pain  — 

How  now,  my  soul,  we  do  not  heed  the 
fire  'i 

Faint  - hearted  ? tut ! — faint  - storn  - 
ach’d ! faint  as  I am, 

God  willing,  I will  burn  for  Him. 

Who  comes  ? 

A thousand  marks  are  set  upon  my 
head. 

Friend  ? — foe  perhaps  — a tussle  for 
it  then ! 

Nay,  but  my  friend.  Thou  art  so  well 
disguised, 


COLUMBUS. 


701 


I knew  thee  not.  Hast  thou  brought 
bread  with  thee  ? 

I have  not  broken  bread  for  fifty  hours. 

None  ? I am  damn’d  already  by  the 
Priest 

For  holding  there  was  bread  where 
bread  was  none  — 

No  bread.  My  friends  await  me  yon- 
der'2 Yes. 

Lead  on  then.  Up  the  mountain  ? 
Is  it  far  \ 

Not  far.  Climb  first  and  reach  me 
down  thy  hand. 

I am  not  like  to  die  for  lack  of  bread, 

For  I must  live  to  testify  by  fire.1 


COLUMBUS. 

Chains,  my  good  lord : in  your  raised 
brows  I read 

Some  wonder  at  our  chamber  orna- 
ments. 

We  brought  this  iron  from  our  isles 
of  gold. 

Does  the  king  know  you  deign  to 
visit  him 

Whom  once  he  rose  from  off  his 
throne  to  greet 

Before  his  people,  like  his  brother 
king  'l 

I saw  your  face  that  morning  in  the 
crowd. 

At  Barcelona  — tho’  you  were  not 
then 

So  bearded.  Yes.  The  city  deck’d 
herself 

To  meet  me,  roar’d  my  name;  the 
king,  the  queen 

Bade  me  be  seated,  speak,  and  tell 
them  all 

The  story  of  my  voyage,  and  while  I 
spoke 

The  crowd’s  roar  fell  as  at  the  “ Peace, 
be  still ! ” 

And  when  I ceased  to  speak,  the  king, 
the  queen, 

Sank  from  their  thrones,  and  melted 
into  tears, 

1 He  was  burnt  on  Christmas  Day,  1417. 


And  knelt,  and  lifted  hand  and  heart 
and  voice 

In  praise  to  God  who  led  me  tliro’  the 
waste. 

And  then  the  great  “ Laudamus  ” rose 
to  heaven. 

Chains  for  the  Admiral  of  the 
Ocean : chains 

For  him  who  gave  a new  heaven,  a 
new  earth, 

As  holy  John  had  prophesied  of  me, 

Gave  glory  and  more  empire  to  the 
kings 

Of  Spain  than  all  their  battles  ! chains 
for  him 

Who  push’d  his  prows  into  the  setting 
sun, 

And  made  West  East,  and  sail’d  the 
Dragon’s  mouth, 

And  came  upon  the  Mountain  of  the 
World, 

And  saw  the  rivers  roll  from  Paradise  ! 

Chains ! we  are  Admirals  of  the 
Ocean,  we, 

We  and  our  sons  for  ever.  Ferdinand 

Hath  sign’d  it  and  our  Holy  Catholic 
queen  — 

Of  the  Ocean  — of  the  Indies  — Ad- 
mirals we  — 

Our  title,  which  we  never  mean  to 
yield, 

Our  guerdon  not  alone  for  what  we 
did, 

But  our  amends  for  all  we  might  have 
done  — 

The  vast  occasion  of  our  stronger 
life  — 

Eighteen  long  years  of  waste,  seven  in 
your  Spain, 

Lost,  showing  courts  and  kings  a truth 
the  babe 

Will  suck  in  with  his  milk  hereafter 
— earth 

A sphere. 

Were  you  at  Salamanca?  No. 

We  fronted  there  the  learning  of  all 
Spain, 

All  their  cosmogonies,  their  astrono- 
mies : 


702 


COLUMBUS. 


Guess-work  they  guess’d  it,  but  the 
golden  guess 

Is  morning-star  to  the  full  round  of 
truth. 

No  guess-work ! I was  certain  of  my 
goal ; 

Some  thought  it  heresy,  but  that 
would  not  hold. 

King  David  call’d  the  heavens  a hide, 
a tent 

Spread  over  earth,  and  so  this  earth 
^ swas  flat : 

Some  cited  old  Lactantius  • could  it  be 

That  trees  grew  downward,  rain  fell 
upward,  men 

Walk’d  like  the  fly  on  ceilings'?  and 
besides, 

The  great  Augustine  wrote  that  none 
could  breathe 

Within  the  zone  of  heat ; so  might 
there  be 

Two  Adams,  two  mankinds,  and  that 
was  clean 

Against  God’s  word : thus  was  I 
beaten  back, 

And  chiefly  to  my  sorrow  by  the 
Church, 

And  thought  to  turn  my  face  from 
Spain,  appeal 

Once  more  to  France  or  England ; 
but  our  Queen 

Recall’d  me,  for  at  last  their  High- 
nesses 

Were  half-assured  this  earth  might 
be  a sphere. 

All  glory  to  the  all-blessed  Trinity, 

All  glory  to  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 

And  Holy  Church,  from  whom  I never 
swerved 

Not  even  by  one  hair’s-breadth  of 
heresy, 

I have  accomplish’d  what  I came  to  do. 

Not  yet  — not  all — last  night  a 
dream  — I sail’d 

On  my  first  voyage,  harass’d  by  the 
frights 

Of  my  first  crew,  their  curses  and 
their  groans. 

The  great  flame-banner  borne  by  Tene- 
riffe, 


The  compass,  like  an  old  friend  false 
at  last 

In  our  most  need,  appall’d  them,  and 
the  wind 

Still  westward,  and  the  weedy  seas  — 
at  length 

The  landbird,  and  the  branch  with 
berries  on  it, 

The  carven  staff — and  last  the  light, 
the  light 

On  Guanahani!  but  I changed  the 
name ; 

San  Salvador  I call’d  it;  and  the 
light 

Grew  as  I gazed,  and  brought  out  a 
broad  sky 

Of  dawning  over  — not  those  alien 
palms, 

The  marvel  of  that  fair  new  nature  — 
not 

That  Indian  isle,  but  our  most  ancient 
East 

Moriah  with  Jerusalem ; and  I saw 

The  glory  of  the  Lord  flash  up,  and 
beat 

Thro’  all  the  homely  town  from  jas- 
per, sapphire, 

Chalcedony,  emerald,  sardonyx,  sar- 
dius, 

Chrysolite,  beryl,  topaz,  chrysoprase, 

Jacynth,  and  amethyst  — and  those 
twelve  gates, 

Pearl  — and  I woke,  and  thought  — 
death  — I shall  die  — 

I am  Avritten  in  the  Lamb’s  own  Book 
of  Life 

To  walk  within  the  glory  of  the  Lord 

Sunless  and  moonless,  utter  light  — 
but  no ! 

The  Lord  had  sent  this  bright,  strange 
dream  to  me 

To  mind  me  of  the  secret  voav  I made 

When  Spain  was  waging  war  against 
the  Moor  — 

I strove  myself  with  Spain  against 
the  Moor. 

There  came  two  voices  from  the  Sep- 
ulchre, 

Two  friars  crying  that  if  Spain  should 
oust 

The  Moslem  from  her  limit,  he,  the 
fierce 


COLUMBUS. 


703 


Soldan  of  Egypt,  would  break  down 
and  raze 

The  blessed  tomb  of  Christ ; whereon 
I vow’d 

That,  if  our  Princes  harken’d  to  my 
prayer, 

Whatever  wealth  I brought  from  that 
new  world 

Should,  in  this  old,  be  consecrate  to 
lead 

A new  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 

And  free  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from 
thrall. 

Gold  \ I had  brought  your  Princes 
gold  enough 

If  left  alone  ! Being  but  a Genovese, 

I am  handled  worse  than  had  I been  a 
Moor, 

And  breach’d  the  belting  wall  of 
Cambalji, 

And  given  the  Great  Khan’s  palaces 
to  the  Moor, 

Or  clutch’d  the  sacred  crown  of  Pres- 
ter  John, 

And  cast  it  to  the  Moor:  but  had  I 
brought 

From  Solomon’s  now-recover’d  Opliir 
all 

The  gold  that  Solomon’s  navies  car- 
ried home, 

Would  that  have  gilded  me?  Blue 
blood  of  Spain, 

Tho’  quartering  your  own  royal  arms 
of  Spain, 

I have  not:  blue  blood  and  black  blood 
of  Spain, 

The  noble  and  the  convict  of  Cas- 
tile, 

Howl’d  me  from  Hispaniola  ; for  you 
know 

The  flies  at  home,  that  ever  swarm 
about 

And  cloud  the  highest  heads,  and 
murmur  down 

Truth  in  the  distance  — these  out- 
buzz’d  me  so 

That  even  our  prudent  king,  our  right- 
eous queen  — 

I pray’d  them  being  so  calumniated 

They  would  commission  one  of  weight 
and  worth 


To  judge  between  my  slander’d  self 
and  me  — 

Fonseca  my  main  enemy  at  their  court, 

They  send  me  out  his  tool,  Bovadilla, 
one 

As  ignorant  and  impolitic  as  a beast  — 

Blockish  irreverence,  brainless  greed 
— who  sack’d 

My  dwelling,  seized  upon  my  papers, 
loosed 

My  captives,  feed  the  rebels  of  the 
crown, 

Sold  the  crown-farms  for  all  but  noth- 
ing, gave 

All  but  free  leave  for  all  to  work  the 
mines, 

Drove  me  and  my  good  brothers  home 
in  chains, 

And  gathering  ruthless  gold — a sin- 
gle piece 

Weigh’d  nigh  four  thousand  Castil- 
lanos  — so 

They  tell  me  — weigh’d  him  down 
into  the  abysm  — 

The  hurricane  of  the  latitude  on  him 
fell, 

The  seas  of  our  discovering  over-roll 

Him  and  his  gold  ; the  frailer  caravel, 

With  what  was  mine,  came  happily  to 
the  shore. 

There  was  a glimmering  of  God’s  hand. 

And  God 

Hath  more  than  glimmer’d  on  me.  O 
my  lord, 

I swear  to  you  I heard  his  voice  be- 
tween 

The  thunders  in  the  black  Veragua 
nights, 

“ O soul  of  little  faith,  slow  to  believe  ! 

Have  I not  been  about  thee  from  thy 
birth  ? 

Given  thee  the  keys  of  the  great 
Ocean-sea  1 

Set  thee  in  light  till  time  shall  be  no 
more  ? 

Is  it  I who  have  deceived  thee  or  the 
world  ? 

Endure ! thou  hast  done  so  well  for 
men,  that  men 

Cry  out  against  thee  : was  it  otherwise 

With  mine  own  Son  ? ” 


704 


COLUMBUS. 


And  more  than  once  in  days 

Of  doubt  and  cloud  and  storm,  when 
drowning  hope 

Sank  all  but  out  of  sight,  I heard  his 
voice, 

“ Be  not  cast  down.  I lead  thee  by 
the  hand, 

Fear  not.”  And  I shall  hear  his 
voice  again  — 

I know  that  he  has  led  me  all  my  life, 

I am  not  yet  too  old  to  work  his  will  — 

His  voice  again. 

Still  for  all  that,  my  lord, 

I lying  here  bedridden  and  alone, 

Cast  off,  put  by,  scouted  by  court  and 
king  — 

The  first  discoverer  starves  — his  fol- 
lowers, all 

Flower  into  fortune  — our  world’s  way 
— and  I, 

Without  a roof  that  I can  call  mine 
own, 

With  scarce  a coin  to  buy  a meal 
withal, 

And  seeing  what  a door  for  scoundrel 
scum 

I open’d  to  the  West,  thro’  which  the 
lust, 

Villany,  violence,  avarice,  of  your 
Spain 

Pour’d  in  on  all  those  happy  naked 
isles  — 

Their  kindly  native  princes  slain  or 
slaved, 

Their  wives  and  children  Spanish  con- 
cubines, 

Their  innocent  hospitalities  quench’d 
in  blood, 

Some  dead  of  hunger,  some  beneath 
the  scourge, 

Some  over-labor’d,  some  by  their  own 
hands,  — 

Yea,  the  dear  mothers,  crazing  Nature, 
kill 

Their  babies  at  the  breast  for  hate  of 
Spain  — 

Ah  God,  the  harmless  people  whom 
we  found 

In  Hispaniola’s  island-Paradise  ! 

Who  took  us  for  the  very  Gods  from 
Heaven, 


And  we  have  sent  them  very  fiends 
from  Hell ; 

And  I myself,  myself  not  blameless,  I 

Could  sometimes  wish  I had  never  led 
the  way. 

Only  the  ghost  of  our  great  Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles  on  me,  saying,  “ Be  thou  com- 
forted ! 

This  creedless  people  will  be  brought 
to  Christ 

And  own  the  holy  governance  of 
Rome.” 

But  who  could  dream  that  we,  who 
bore  the  Cross 

Thither,  were  excommunicated  there, 

For  curbing  crimes  that  scandalized 
the  Cross, 

By  him,  the  Catalonian  Minorite, 

Pome’s  Vicar  in  our  Indies  ? who  be- 
lieve 

These  hard  memorials  of  our  truth  to 
Spain 

Clung  closer  to  us  for  a longer  term 

Than  any  friend  of  ours  at  Court  1 
and  yet 

Pardon  — too  harsh,  unjust.  I am 
rack’d  with  pains. 

You  see  that  I have  hung  them  by 
my  bed, 

And  I will  have  them  buried  in  my 
grave. 

Sir,  in  that  flight  of  ages  which  are 
God’s 

Own  voice  to  justify  the  dead  — per- 
chance 

Spain  once  the  most  chivalric  race  on 
earth, 

Spain  then  the  mightiest,  wealthiest 
realm  on  earth, 

So  made  by  me,  may  seek  to  unbury 
me, 

To  lay  me  in  some  shrine  of  this  old 
Spain, 

Or  in  that  vaster  Spain  I leave  to 
Spain. 

Then  some  one  standing  by  my  grave 
will  say, 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 


70S 


“Behold  the  bones  of  Christopher 
Colon  ” — 

“Ay,  but  the  chains,  what  do  they 
mean  — the  chains  ? ” — 

I sorrow  for  that  kindly  child  of  Spain 

Who  then  will  have  to  answer,  “ These 
same  chains 

Bound  these  same  bones  back  thro’ 
the  Atlantic  sea, 

Which  he  unchain’d  for  all  the  world 
to  come.” 

O Queen  of  Heaven  who  seest  the 
souls  in  Hell 

And  purgatory,  I suffer  all  as  much 

As  they  do  — for  the  moment.  Stay, 
my  son 

Is  here  anon : my  son  will  speak  for 
me 

Ablier  than  I can  in  these  spasms  that 
grind 

Bone  against  bone.  You  will  not. 
One  last  word. 

You  move  about  the  Court,  I pray 
you  tell 

King  Ferdinand  who  plays  with  me, 
that  one, 

Whose  life  has  been  no  play  with  him 
and  his 

Hidalgos  — shipwrecks,  famines,  fe- 
vers, fights, 

M utinies,  treacheries  — wink’d  at,  and 
condoned  — 

That  I am  loyal  to  him  till  the  death, 

And  ready  — tho’  our  Holy  Catholic 
Queen, 

Who  fain  had  pledged  her  jewels  on 
my  first  voyage, 

Whose  hope  was  mine  to  spread  the 
Catholic  faith, 

Who  wept  with  me  when  I return’d 
in  chains, 

Who  sits  beside  the  blessed  Virgin 
now, 

To  whom  I send  my  prayer  by  night 
and  day  — 

She  is  gone  — but  you  will  tell  the 
King,  that  I, 

Rack’d  as  I am  with  gout,  and 
wrench’d  with  pains 

Gain’d  in  the  service  of  His  Highness, 
yet 


[ Am  ready  to  sail  forth  on  one  last 
voyage, 

And  readier,  if  the  King  would  hear, 
to  lead 

One  last  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 

And  save  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from 
thrall. 

Going'?  I am  old  and  slighted  : you 
have  dared 

Somewhat  perhaps  in  coming  1 my 
poor  thanks  ! 

I am  but  an  alien  and  a Genovese. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 

(FOUNDED  ON  AN  IRISH  LEGEND. 

A.D.  700.) 


I was  the  chief  of  the  race  — he  had 
stricken  my  father  dead  — 

But  I gather’d  my  fellows  together,  I 
swore  I would  strike  off  his 
head. 

Each  one  of  them  look’d  like  a king, 
and  was  noble  in  birth  as  in 
worth, 

And  each  of  them  boasted  he  sprang 
from  the  oldest  race  upon  earth. 

Each  was  as  brave  in  the  fight  as  the 
bravest  hero  of  song, 

And  each  of  them  liefer  had  died  than 
have  done  one  another  a wrong. 

He  lived  on  an  isle  in  the  ocean  — we 
sail’d  on  a Friday  morn  — 

He  that  had  slain  my  father  the  day 
before  I was  born. 

ii. 

And  we  came  to  the  isle  in  the  ocean, 
and  there  on  the  shore  was  he. 

But  a sudden  blast  blew  us  out  and 
away  thro’  a boundless  sea. 

hi. 

And  we  came  to  the  Silent  Isle  that 
we  never  had  touch’d  at  before, 

Where  a silent  ocean  always  broke  on 
a silent  shore, 


706 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 


And  the  brooks  glitter’d  on  in  the  light 
without  sound,  and  the  long 
waterfalls 

Pour’d  in  a thunderless  plunge  to  the 
base  of  the  mountain  walls, 

And  the  poplar  and  cypress  unshaken 
by  storm  flourish’d  up  beyond 
sight, 

And  the  pine  shot  aloft  from  the  crag 
to  an  unbelievable  height, 

And  high  in  the  heaven  above  it  there 
flicker’d  a songless  lark, 

And  the  cock  couldn’t  crow,  and  the 
bull  couldn’t  low,  and  the  dog 
couldn’t  bark. 

And  round  it  we  went,  and  thro’  it,  but 
never  a murmur,  a breath  — 

It  was  all  of  it  fair  as  life,  it  was  all 
of  it  quiet  as  death, 

And  we  hated  the  beautiful  Isle,  for 
whenever  we  strove  to  speak 

Our  voices  were  thinner  and  fainter 
than  any  flittermouse-shriek ; 

And  the  men  that  were  mighty  of 
tongue  and  could  raise  such 
a battle-cry 

That  a hundred  who  heard  it  would 
rush  on  a thousand  lances  and 
die  — 

0 they  to  be  dumb’d  by  the  charm  ! 
— so  fluster’d  with  anger  were 
they 

They  almost  fell  on  each  other ; but 
after  we  sail’d  away. 


IV. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Shouting, 
we  landed,  a score  of  wild  birds 
Cried  from  the  topmost  summit  with 
human  voices  and  words  ; 

Once  in  an  hour  they  cried,  and  when- 
ever their  voices  peal’d 
The  steer  fell  down  at  the  plow  and 
the  harvest  died  from  the  field, 
And  the  men  dropt  dead  in  the  valleys 
and  half  of  the  cattle  went  lame, 
And  the  roof  sank  in  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  dwelling  broke  into 
flame ; 

And  the  shouting  of  these  wild  birds 
ran  into  the  hearts  of  my  crew, 


Till  they  shouted  along  with  the  shout- 
ing and  seized  one  another  and 
slew ; 

But  I drew  them  the  one  from  the 
other  ; I saw  that  we  could  not 
stay, 

And  we  left  the  dead  to  the  birds  and 
we  sail’d  with  our  wounded 
away. 

v. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Flowers  : 
their  breath  met  us  out  on  the 
seas, 

For  the  Spring  and  the  middle  Sum- 
mer sat  each  on  the  lap  of  the 
breeze ; 

And  the  red  passion-flower  to  the 
cliffs,  and  the  dark-blue  cle- 
matis, clung, 

And  starr’d  with  a myriad  blossom 
the  long  convolvulus  hung ; 

And  the  topmost  spire  of  the  moun- 
tain was  lilies  in  lieu  of  snow, 

And  the  lilies  like  glaciers  winded 
down,  running  out  below 

Thro’  the  fire  of  the  tulip  and  poppy, 
the  blaze  of  gorse,  and  the 
blush 

Of  millions  of  roses  that  sprang  with- 
out leaf  or  a thorn  from  the 
bush  ; 

And  the  whole  isle-side  flashing  down 
from  the  peak  without  ever  a 
tree 

Swept  like  a torrent  of  gems  from  the 
sky  to  the  blue  of  the  sea  ; 

And  we  roll’d  upon  capes  of  crocus 
and  vaunted  our  kith  and  our 
kin, 

And  we  wallow’d  in  beds  of  lilies, 
and  chanted  the  triumph  of 
Finn, 

Till  each  like  a golden  image  was 
pollen’d  from  head  to  feet 

And  each  was  as  dry  as  a cricket, 
with  thirst  in  the  middle-day 
heat. 

Blossom  and  blossom,  and  promise  of 
blossom,  but  never  a fruit ! 

And  we  hated  the  Flowering  Isle,  as 
we  hated  the  isle  that  was  mute, 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 


707 


And  we  tore  up  the  flowers  by  the 
million  and  flung  them  in  bight 
and  bay, 

And  we  left  but  a naked  rock,  and  in 
anger  we  sail’d  away. 

VI. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fruits  : 
all  round  from  the  cliffs  and 
the  capes, 

Purple  or  amber,  dangled  a hundred 
fathom  of  grapes, 

And  the  warm  melon  lay  like  a little 
sun  on  the  tawny  sand, 

And  the  fig  ran  up  from  the  beach 
and  rioted  over  the  land, 

And  the  mountain  arose  like  a jew- 
ell’d  throne  thro’  the  fragrant 
air, 

Glowing  with  all-color’d  plums  and 
with  golden  masses  of  pear, 

And  the  crimson  and  scarlet  of  berries 
that  flamed  upon  bine  and  vine, 

But  in  every  berry  and  fruit  was  the 
poisonous  pleasure  of  wine  ; 

And  the  peak  of  the  mountain  was 
apples,  the  hugest  that  ever 
were  seen, 

And  they  prest,  as  they  grew,  on  each 
other,  with  hardly  a leaflet  be- 
tween, 

And  all  of  them  redder  than  rosiest 
health  or  than  utterest  shame, 

And  setting,  when  Even  descended, 
the  very  sunset  aflame  ; 

And  we  stay’d  three  days,  and  we 
gorged  and  we  madden’d,  till 
every  one  drew 

His  sword  on  his  fellow  to  slay  him, 
and  ever  they  struck  and  they 
slew ; 

And  myself,  I had  eaten  but  sparely, 
and  fought  till  I sunder’d  the 
fray, 

Then  I bade  them  remember  my 
father’s  death,  and  we  sail’d 
away. 

VII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fire : we 
were  lured  by  the  light  from 
afar, 


For  the  peak  sent  up  one  league  of 
fire  to  the  Northern  Star  : 

Lured  by  the  glare  and  the  blare,  but 
scarcely  could  stand  upright, 

For  the  whole  isle  shudder’d  and 
shook  like  a man  in  a mortal 
affright : 

We  were  giddy  besides  with  the  fruits 
we  had  gorged,  and  so  crazed 
that  at  last 

There  were  some  leap’d  into  the  fire  ; 
and  away  we  sail’d,  and  we 
past 

Over  that  undersea  isle,  where  the 
water  is  clearer  than  air : 

Down  we  look’d:  what  a garden  ! 0 
bliss,  what  a Paradise  there  ! 

Towers  of  a happier  time,  low  down 
in  a rainbow7  deep 

Silent  palaces,  quiet  fields  of  eternal 
sleep  ! 

And  three  of  the  gentlest  and  best  of 
my  people,  whate’er  I could 
say, 

Plunged  head  down  in  the  sea,  and 
the  Paradise  trembled  away. 

VIII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Bounteous  Isle, 
where  the  heavens  lean  low  on 
the  land, 

And  ever  at  dawn  from  the  cloud 
glitter’d  o’er  us  a sunbright 
hand, 

Then  it  open’d  and  dropt  at  the  side 
of  each  man,  as  he  rose  from 
his  rest, 

Bread  enough  for  his  need  till  the 
laborless  day  dipt  under  the 
West ; 

And  we  wander’d  about  it  and  thro’ 
it.  0 never  was  time  so 
good ! 

And  wre  sang  of  the  triumphs  of 
Finn,  and  the  boast  of  our 
ancient  blood, 

And  we  gazed  at  the  wandering  wave 
as  we  sat  by  the  gurgle  of 
springs, 

And  we  chanted  the  songs  of  the 
Bards  and  the  glories  of  fairy 
kings  ; 


708 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 


But  at  length  we  began  to  be  weary, 
to  sigh,  and  to  stretch  and 
yawn, 

Till  we  hated  the  Bounteous  Isle  and 
the  sunbright  hand  of  the 
dawn, 

For  there  was  not  an  enemy  near,  but 
the  whole  green  Isle  was  our 
own, 

And  we  took  to  playing  at  ball,  and 
we  took  to  throwing  the  stone, 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  battle,  but 
that  wras  a perilous  play, 

For  the  passion  of  the  battle  was  in 
us,  we  slew  and  we  sail’d 
away. 

IX. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Witches 
and  heard  their  musical  cry  — 
“ Come  to  us,  0 come,  come  ” in  the 
stormy  red  of  a sky 
Dashing  the  fires  and  the  shadows  of 
dawn  on  the  beautiful  shapes, 
For  a wild  witch  naked  as  heaven 
stood  on  each  of  the  loftiest 
capes, 

And  a hundred  ranged  on  the  rock 
like  white  sea-birds  in  a row, 
And  a hundred  gamboll’d  and  pranced 
on  the  wrecks  in  the  sand  be- 
low, 

And  a hundred  splash’d  from  the 
ledges,  and  bosom’d  the  burst 
of  the  spray, 

But  I knew  we  should  fall  on  each 
other,  and  hastily  sail’d  away. 

x. 

And  we  came  in  an  evil  time  to  the 
Isle  of  the  Double  Towers, 

One  was  of  smooth-cut  stone,  one 
carved  all  over  with  flowers, 
But  an  earthquake  always  moved  in 
the  hollows  under  the  dells, 
And  they  shock’d  on  each  other  and 
butted  each  other  with  clashing 
of  bells, 

And  the  daws  flew  out  of  the  Towers 
and  jangled  and  wrangled  in 
vain, 

And  the  clash  and  boom  of  the  bells 
rang  into  the  heart  and  the  brain. 


Till  the  passion  of  battle  was  on  us, 
and  all  took  sides  with  the 
Towers, 

There  were  some  for  the  clean-cut 
stone,  there  were  more  for  the 
carven  flowers, 

And  the  wrathful  thunder  of  God 
peal’d  over  us  all  the  day, 

For  the  one  half  slew  the  other  and, 
after  we  sail’d  away. 

XI. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  a Saint 
who  had  sail’d  with  St.  Brendan 
of  yore, 

He  had  lived  ever  since  on  the  Isle 
and  his  winters  were  fifteen  score. 

And  his  voice  was  low  as  from  other 
worlds,  and  his  eyes  were 
sweet, 

And  his  white  hair  sank  to  his  heels 
and  his  white  beard  fell  to  his 
feet, 

And  he  spake  to  me,  “ O Maeldune, 
let  be  this  purpose  of  thine  ! 

Remember  the  words  of  the  Lord 
when  he  told  us  ‘ Vengeance  is 
mine ! ’ 

His  fathers  have  slain  thy  fathers 
in  war  or  in  single  strife, 

Thy  fathers  have  slain  his  fathers, 
each  taken  a life  for  a life, 

Thy  father  had  slain  his  father,  how 
long  shall  the  murder  last  ? 

Go  back  to  the  Isle  of  Finn  and  suffer 
the  Past  to  be  Past.” 

And  we  kiss’d  the  fringe  of  his  beard 
and  we  pray’d  as  we  heard  him 
pray, 

And  the  Holy  man  he  assoil’d  us,  and 
sadly  we  sail’d  away. 

XII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  we  were  blown 
from,  and  there  on  the  shore 
was  he, 

The  man  that  had  slain  my  father.  I 
saw  him  and  let  him  be. 

0 weary  was  I of  the  travel,  the 
trouble,  the  strife  and  the  sin, 

When  I landed  again,  with  a tithe  of 
my  men,  on  the  Isle  of  Finn. 


DE  PRO  FUND IS. 


709 


DE  PROFUNDIS: 

THE  TWO  GREETINGS. 

I. 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep, 

Where  all  that  was  to  be,  in  all  that 
was, 

Whirl’d  for  a million  aeons  thro’  the 
vast 

Waste  dawn  of  multitudinous-eddy- 
ing light  — 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep, 

Thro’  all  this  changing  world  of 
changeless  law, 

And  every  phase  of  ever-heightening 
life, 

And  nine  long  months  of  antenatal 
gloom, 

With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent  — 
her  dark  orb 

Touch’d  with  earth’s  light  — thou 
comest,  darling  boy ; 

Our  own;  a babe  in  lineament  and 
limb 

Perfect,  and  prophet  of  the  perfect 
man ; 

Whose  face  and  form  are  hers  and 
mine  in  one, 

Indissolubly  married  like  our  love  ; 

Live,  and  be  happy  in  thyself,  and 
serve 

This  mortal  race  thy  kin  so  well,  that 
men 

May  bless  thee  as  we  bless  thee,  O 
young  life 

Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark; 
and  may 

The  fated  channel  where  thy  motion 
lives 

Be  prosperously  shaped,  and  sway  thy 
course 

Along  the  years  of  haste  and  random 
youth 

Unshatter’d;  then  full-current  thro’ 
full  man ; 

And  last  in  kindly  curves,  with  gen- 
tlest fall, 

By  quiet  fields,  a slowly-dying  power, 


To  that  last  deep  where  we  and  thou 
are  still. 

II. 

i. 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep, 

From  that  great  deep,  before  our 
world  begins, 

Whereon  the  Spirit  of  God  moves  as 
he  will  — 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep, 

From  that  true  world  within  the  world 
we  see, 

Whereof  our  world  is  but  the  bound- 
ing shore  — 

Out  of  the  deep,  Spirit,  out  of  the  deep, 

With  this  ninth  moon,  that  sends  the 
hidden  sun 

Down  yon  dark  sea,  thou  comest, 
darling  boy. 

ii. 

For  in  the  world,  which  is  not  ours, 
They  said 

“ Let  us  make  man  ” and  that  which 
should  be  man, 

From  that  one  light  no  man  can  look 
upon, 

Drew  to  this  shore  lit  by  the  suns  and 
moons 

And  all  the  shadows.  0 dear  Spirit 
half-lost 

In  thine  own  shadow  and  this  fleshly 
sign 

That  thou  art  thou  — who  wailest 
being  born 

And  banish’d  into  mystery,  and  the 
pain 

Of  this  divisible-indivisible  world 

Among  the  numerable-innumerable 

Sun,  sun,  and  sun,  thro’  finite-infinite 
space 

In  finite-infinite  Time  — our  mortal 
veil 

And  shatter’d  phantom  of  that  infinite 
One, 

Who  made  thee  unconceivably  Thy- 
self 

Out  of  His  whole  World-self  and  all 
in  all  — 


710 


PREFA  TORY  SONNE  T,  E TC.  — MONTENE  GR  O. 


Live  thou ! and  of  the  grain  and  husk, 
the  grape 

And  ivyberry,  choose  ; and  still  depart 

From  death  to  death  thro’  life  and 
life,  and  find 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer  Him,  who 
wrought 

Not  Matter,  nor  the  finite-infinite. 

But  this  main-miracle,  that  thou  art 
thou, 

With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on 
the  world. 

THE  HUMAN  CRY. 


Hallowed  be  Thy  name  — Halle- 
luiah! — 

Infinite  Ideality ! 

Immeasurable  Reality  ! 

Infinite  Personality ! 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name  — Halleluiah  ! 

ii. 

We  feel  we  are  nothing  — for  all  is 
Thou  and  in  Thee ; 

We  feel  we  are  something  — that  also 
has  come  from  Thee ; 

We  know  we  are  nothing  — but  Thou 
wilt  help  us  to  be. 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name  — Halleluiah ! 


PREFATORY  SONNET 

TO  THE  “ NINETEENTH  CENTURY.” 

Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and 
fast 

To  touch  all  shores,  now  leaving  to 
the  skill 

Of  others  their  old  craft  seaworthy  still, 

Have  charter’d  this ; where,  mindful 
of  the  past, 

Our  true  co-mates  regatlier  round  the 
mast ; 

Of  diverse  tongue,  but  with  a com- 
mon will 

Here,  in  this  roaring  moon  of  daffodil 

And  crocus,  to  put  forth  and  brave 
the  blast ; 

For  some,  descending  from  the  sacred 
peak 


Of  hoar  high-templed  Faith,  have 
leagued  again 

Their  lot  with  ours  to  rove  the  world 
about ; 

And  some  are  wilder  comrades,  sworn 
to  seek 

If  any  golden  harbor  be  for  men 

In  seas  of  Death  and  sunless  gulfs  of 
Doubt. 


TO  THE  REY.  W.  H.  BROOK- 
FIELD. 

Brooks,  for  they  call’d  you  so  that 
knew  you  best, 

Old  Brooks,  who  loved  so  well  to 
mouth  my  rhymes, 

How  oft  we  two  have  heard  St.  Mary’s 
chimes ! 

How  oft  the  Cantab  supper,  host  and 
guest, 

Would  echo  helpless  laughter  to  your 
jest! 

How  oft  with  him  we  paced  that  walk 
of  lines, 

Him,  the  lost  light  of  those  dawn- 
golden  times, 

Who  loved  you  well ! Now  both  are 
gone  to  rest. 

You  man  of  humorous-melancholy 
mark, 

Dead  of  some  inward  agony  — is  it  so  ? 

Our  kindlier,  trustier  Jaques,  past 
away ! 

I cannot  laud  this  life,  it  looks  so  dark  : 

2 /etas  uvap  — dream  of  a shadow,  go  — 

God  bless  you.  I shall  j oin  you  in  a day. 


MONTENEGRO. 

They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle 
sails, 

They  kept  their  faith,  their  freedom, 
on  the  height, 

Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  arm’d  by  day 
and  night 

Against  the  Turk ; whose  inroad  no- 
where scales 

Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  foot- 
step fails, 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 


711 


And  red  with  blood  the  Crescent  reels 
from  fight 

Before  their  dauntless  hundreds,  in 
prone  flight 

By  thousands  down  the  crags  and 
thro’  the  vales. 

0 smallest  among  peoples ! rough 
rock-throne 

Of  Freedom ! warriors  beating  back 
the  swarm 

Of  Turkish  Islam  for  five  hundred 
years, 

Great  Tsernogora ! never  since  thine 
own 

Black  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  brake 
the  storm 

Has  breathed  a race  of  mightier 
mountaineers. 


* TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 
Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance, 
Cloud-weaver  of  phantasmal  hopes 
and  fears. 


French  of  the  French,  and  Lord  of 
human  tears ; 

Child  lover;  Bard  whose  fame-lit 
laurels  glance 

Darkening  the  wreaths  of  all  that 
would  advance, 

Beyond  our  strait,  their  claim  to  be 
thy  peers ; 

Weird  Titan  by  thy  winter  weight  of 
years 

As  yet  unbroken,  Stormy  voice  of 
France ! 

Who  dost  not  love  our  England  — so 
they  say  ; 

I know  not  — England,  France,  all 
man  to  be 

Will  make  one  people  ere  man’s  race 
be  run  : 

And  I,  desiring  that  diviner  day, 

Yield  thee  full  thanks  for  thy  full 
courtesy 

To  younger  England  in  the  boy  my 
son. 


TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 

Constantinus,  King  of  the  Scots,  after 
having  sworn  allegiance  to  Athelstan,  allied 
himself  with  the  Danes  of  Ireland  under 
Anlaf,  and  invading  England,  was  defeated 
by  Athelstan  and  his  brother  Edmund  with 
great  slaughter  at  Brunanburh  in  the  year 
937. 


1Athelstan  King, 

Lord  among  Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower  and 
Baron  of  Barons, 

He  with  his  brother, 

Edmund  Atheling, 

Gaining  a lifelong 
Glory  in  battle, 

1 I have  more  or  less  availed  myself  of  my 
son’s  prose  translation  of  this  poem  in  the 
Contemporary  Review  (November  1876) . 


Slew  with  the  sword-edge 
There  by  Brunanburh, 

Brake  the  shield-wall, 

Hew’d  the  linden-wood,1 
Hack’d  the  battleshield, 

Sons  of  Edward  with  hammer’d  brands. 

ii. 

Theirs  was  a greatness 
Got  from  their  Grandsires  — 
Theirs  that  so  often  in 
Strife  with  their  enemies 
Struck  for  their  hoards  and  theii 
hearths  and  their  homes. 

hi. 

Bow’d  the  spoiler, 

Bent  the  Scotsman, 

1 Shields  of  lindenwood. 


712 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 


Fell  the  shipcrews 
Doom’d  to  the  death. 

All  the  field  with  blood  of  the  fighters 
Flow’d,  from  when  first  the  great 
Sun-star  of  morningtide, 

Lamp  of  the  Lord  God 
Lord  everlasting, 

Glode  over  earth  till  the  glorious 
creature 

Sank  to  his  setting. 

IV. 

There  lay  many  a man 
Marr’d  by  the  javelin, 

Men  of  the  Northland 
Shot  over  shield. 

There  was  the  Scotsman 
Weary  of  war. 

v. 

We  the  West-Saxons, 

Long  as  the  daylight 
Lasted,  in  companies 
Troubled  the  track  of  the  host  that 
we  hated, 

Grimly  with  swords  that  were  sharp 
from  the  grindstone, 

Fiercely  we  hack’d  at  the  flyers  before 


Mighty  the  Mercian, 

Hard  was  his  hand-play, 
Sparing  not  any  of 
Those  that  witli  Anlaf, 
Warriors  over  the 
Weltering  waters 
Borne  in  the  bark’s-bosom, 
Drew  to  this  island  : 

Doom’d  to  the  death. 

VII. 

Five  young  kings  put  asleep  by  the 
sword-stroke, 

Seven  strong  Earls  of  the  army  of 
Anlaf 

Fell  on  the  war-field,  numberless 
numbers, 

Shipmen  and  Scotsmen. 

VIII. 

Then  the  Norse  leader, 

Dire  was  his  need  of  it, 

Few  were  his  following, 


Fled  to  his  warship : 

Fleeted  his  vessel  to  sea  with  the  king 
in  it, 

Saving  his  life  on  the  fallow  flood. 

IX. 

Also  the  crafty  one, 
Constantinus, 

Crept  to  his  North  again, 
Hoar-headed  hero ! 
x. 

Slender  warrant  had 
He  to  be  proud  of 
The  welcome  of  war-knives  — 
He  that  was  reft  of  his 
Folk  and  his  friends  that  had 
Fallen  in  conflict, 

Leaving  his  son  too 
Lost  in  the  carnage, 

Mangled  to  morsels, 

A youngster  in  war ! 

XI. 

Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  glad  of 

The  clash  of  the  war-glaive  — 

Traitor  and  trickster 

And  spurner  of  treaties  — 

He  nor  had  Anlaf 
With  armies  so  broken 
A reason  for  bragging 
That  they  had  the  better 
In  perils  of  battle 
On  places  of  slaughter  — 

The  struggle  of  standards, 

The  rush  of  the  javelins, 

The  crash  of  the  charges,1 
The  wielding  of  weapons  — 
The  play  that  they  play’d  with 
The  children  of  Edward. 

XII. 

Then  with  their  nail’d  prows 
Parted  the  Norsemen,  a 
Blood-redden’d  relic  of 
Javelins  over 

The  jarring  breaker,  the  deep- 
sea  billow, 

Shaping  their  way  toward  Dy- 
flen  2 again, 

Shamed  in  their  souls. 

1 Lit.  “ the  gathering  of  men.”  2 Dublin- 


ACHILLES  OVER  THE  TRENCH 


713 


XIII. 

Also  the  brethren, 

King  and  Atheling, 

Each  in  his  glory, 

Went  to  his  own  in  his  own  West- 
Saxonland, 

Glad  of  the  war. 

xiv. 

Many  a carcase  they  left  to  be  carrion, 

Many  a livid  one,  many  a sallow- 
skin — 

Left  for  the  white-tail’d  eagle  to  tear 
it,  and 

Left  for  the  horny-nibb’d  raven  to 
rend  it,  and 

Gave  to  the  garbaging  war-hawk  to 
gorge  it,  and 

That  gray  beast,  the  wolf  of  the  weald. 

xv. 

Never  had  huger 
Slaughter  of  heroes 
Slain  by  the  sword-edge  — 

Such  as  old  writers 
Have  writ  of  in  histories  — 
Hapt  in  this  isle,  since 
Up  from  the  East  hither 
Saxon  and  Angle  from 
Over  the  broad  billow 
Broke  into  Britain  with 
Haughty  war-workers  who 
Harried  the  Welshman,  when 
Earls  that  were  lured  by  the 
Hunger  of  glory  gat 
Hold  of  the  land. 


ACHILLES  OYER  THE 
TRENCH. 

ILIAD,  xviii.  202. 

So  saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass’d  away. 

Then  rose  Achilles  dear  to  Zeus  ; and 
round 

Thewarrior’s  puissant  shouldersPallas 
flung 

Her  fringed  aegis,  and  around  his 
head 

The  glorious  goddess  wreath’d  a 
golden  cloud, 


And  from  it  lighted  an  all-sliining 
flame. 

As  when  a smoke  from  a city  goes  to 
heaven 

Far  off  from  out  an  island  girt  by 
foes, 

All  day  the  men  contend  in  grievous 
war 

Erom  their  own  city,  but  with  set  of 
sun 

Their  fires  flame  thickly,  and  aloft  the 
glare 

Elies  streaming,  if  perchance  the 
neighbors  round 

May  see,  and  sail  to  help  them  in  the 
war ; 

So  from  his  head  the  splendor  went 
to  heaven. 

Erom  wall  to  dyke  he  stept,  he  stood, 
nor  join’d 

The  Achasans — honoring  his  wise 
mother’s  word  — 

There  standing,  shouted,  and  Pallas 
far  away 

Call’d  ; and  a boundless  panic  shook 
the  foe. 

Eor  like  the  clear  voice  when  a trum- 
pet shrills, 

Blown  by  the  fierce  beleaguerers  of  a 
town, 

So  rang  the  clear  voice  of  iEakides  ; 

And  when  the  brazen  cry  of  ^Eakides 

Was  heard  among  the  Trojans,  all 
their  hearts 

Were  troubled,  and  the  full-maned 
horses  whirl’d 

The  chariots  backward,  knowing  griefs 
at  hand ; 

And  sheer-astounded  were  the  chari- 
oteers 

To  see  the  dread,  unweariable  fire 

That  always  o’er  the  great  Peleion’s 
head 

Burn’d,  for  the  bright-eyed  goddess 
made  it  burn. 

Thrice  from  the  dyke  he  sent  his 
mighty  shout, 

Thrice  backward  reel’d  the  Trojans 
and  allies ; 

And  there  and  then  twelve  of  their 
noblest  died 

Among  their  spears  and  chariots. 


714 


TO  THE  PRINCESS  FREDERICA  — TO  DANTE. 


TO  PRINCESS  FREDERICA 
ON  HER  MARRIAGE. 

O you  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the 
King  till  he  past  away 
From  the  darkness  of  life  — 

He  saw  not  his  daughter  — he  blest 
her:  the  blind  King  sees  you 
to-day, 

He  blesses  the  wife. 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

ON  THE  CENOTAPH  IN  WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY. 

Not  here ! the  white  North  has  thy 
bones ; and  thou, 

Heroic  sailor-soul, 

Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage 
now 

Toward  no  earthly  pole. 


TO  DANTE. 

(WRITTEN  AT  REQUEST  OF  THE  FLORENTINES.) 

King,  that  hast  reign’d  six  hundred  years,  and  grown 
In  power,  and  ever  growest,  since  thine  own 
Fair  Florence  honoring  thy  nativity, 

Thy  Florence  now  the  crown  of  Italy, 

Hath  sought  the  tribute  of  a verse  from  me, 

I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a day, 

Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower  that  fades  away. 


THE  CUP 


A TRAGEDY. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Synorix,  an  ex-Tetrarch. 
Sinn  at  us,  a Tetrarch. 
Attendant. 

Boy. 


GALATIANS. 


Maid. 

Phoebe. 

Camma,  wife  of  Sinnatus,  afterwards 
Priestess  in  the  Temple  of  Artemis. 


ROMANS. 


Antonius,  a Roman  General. 

Publius. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  — Distant  View  of  a 
City  of  Galatia.  Afternoon. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  Priestesses  are  heard 
singing  in  the  Temple.  Boy  discov- 
ered on  a pathway  among  Rocks  pick- 
ing grapes.  A party  of  Roman 
Soldiers,  guarding  a prisoner  in  chains, 
come  down  the  pathway  and  exeunt. 

Enter  Synorix  (looking  round).  Sing- 
ing ceases. 

Synorix.  Pine,  beech  and  plane, 
oak,  walnut,  apricot, 

Vine,  cypress,  poplar,  myrtle,  bower- 
in  g in 

The  city  where  she  dwells  She  past 
me  here 

Three  years  ago  when  I was  flying 
from 

My  Tetrarchy  to  Rome.  I almost 
touch’d  her  — 

A maiden  slowly  moving  on  to  music 

Among  her  maidens  to  this  Temple  - — 
O Gods  ! 

She  is  mjr  fate  — else  wherefore  has 
my  fate 


I Nobleman. 

I Messenger. 

Brought  me  again  to  her  own  city  ? — 
married 

Since — married  Sinnatus,  the  Tetrarch 
here  — 

But  if  he  be  conspirator,  Rome  will 
chain, 

Or  slay  him.  I may  trust  to  gain  her 
then 

When  I shall  have  my  tetrarchy  re- 
stored 

By  Rome,  our  mistress,  grateful  that 
I show’d  her 

The  weakness  and  the  dissonance  of 
our  clans, 

And  how  to  crush  them  easily. 
Wretched  race ! 

And  once  I wish’d  to  scourge  them  to 
the  bones. 

But  in  this  narrow  breathing-time  of 
life 

Is  vengeance  for  its  own  sake  worth 
the  while, 

If  once  our  ends  are  gain’d  ? and  now 
this  cup  — 

I never  felt  such  passion  for  a woman. 

[Brings  out  a.  cup  and  scroll  from 
under  his  cloak. 

What  have  I written  to  her? 


716 


THE  CUP. 


[ Reading  the  scroll. 
“ To  the  admired  Camma,  wife  of 
Sinnatus,  the  Tetrarch,  one  who  years 
ago,  himself  an  adorer  of  our  great 
goddess,  Artemis,  beheld  you  afar  off 
worshipping  in  her  Temple,  and  loved 
you  for  it,  sends  you  this  cup  rescued 
from  the  burning  of  one  of  her  shrines 
in  a city  thro’  which  he  past  with  the 
Roman  army : it  is  the  , cup  we  use  in 
our  marriages.  Receive  it  from  one 
who  cannot  at  present  write  himself 
other  than 

“A  Galatian  serving  by  force 
in  the  Roman  Legion.” 
[Turns  and  looks  up  to  boy. 
Boy,  dost  thou  know  the  house  of  Sin- 
natus ? 

Boy.  These  grapes  are  for  the  house 
of  Sinnatus  — 

Close  to  the  Temple. 

Synorix.  Yonder? 

Boy.  Yes. 

Synorix  [Aside).  That  I 

With  all  my  range  of  women  should 
yet  shun 

To  meet  her  face  to  face  at  once! 
My  boy, 

[Boy  comes  down  rocks  to  him. 
Take  thou  this  letter  and  this  cup  to 
Camma, 

The  wife  of  Sinnatus. 

Boy.  Going  or  gone  to-day 

To  hunt  with  Sinnatus. 

Synorix.  That  matters  not. 

Take  thou  this  cup  and  leave  it  at  her 
doors. 

[ Gives  the  cup  and  scroll  to  the  boy. 
Boy.  I will,  my  lord. 

[Takes  his  basket  of  grapes  and  exit. 

Enter  Antonius. 

Antonius  [meeting  the  Boy  as  he  goes 
out).  Why,  whither  runs 

the  boy  ? 

Is  that  the  cup  you  rescued  from  the 
fire  ? 

Synorix.  I send  it  to  the  wife  of 
Sinnatus, 

One  half  besotted  in  religious  rites. 
You  come  here  with  your  soldiers  to 
enforce 


The  long-withholden  tribute  : you 

suspect 

This  Sinnatus  of  playing  patriotism, 
Which  in  your  sense  is  treason.  You 
have  yet 

No  proof  against  him  : now  this  pious 
cup 

Is  passport  to  their  house,  and  open 
arms 

To  him  who  gave  it ; and  once  there 
I warrant 

I worm  thro’  all  their  windings. 

Antonius.  If  you  prosper, 

Our  Senate,  wearied  of  their  tetrarehies, 
Their  quarrels  with  themselves,  their 
spites  at  Rome, 

Is  like  enough  to  cancel  them,  and 
throne 

One  king  above  them  all,  who  shall 
be  true 

To  the  Roman  : and  from  what  I heard 
in  Rome, 

This  tributary  crown  may  fall  to  you. 

Synorix.  The  king,  the  crown ! their 
talk  in  Rome  ? is  it  so  ? 

[Antonius  nods. 
Well  — I shall  serve  Galatia  taking  it, 
And  save  her  from  herself,  and  be  to 
Rome 

More  faithful  than  a Roman. 

[Turns  and  sees  Camma  coming. 

Stand  aside, 

Stand  aside  ; here  she  comes  ! 

[ Watching  Camma  as  she  enters 
with  her  Maid. 

Camma  ( to  Maid. ) Where  is  he,  girl  ? 

Maid.  You  know  the  waterfall 
That  in  the  summer  keeps  the  moun- 
tain side, 

But  after  rain  o’erleaps  a jutting  rock 
And  shoots  three  hundred  feet. 

Camma.  The  stag  is  there  ? 

Maid.  Seen  in  the  thicket  at  the 
bottom  there 
But  yester-even. 

Camma.  Good  then,  we  will  climb 
The  mountain  opposite  and  watch  the 
chase. 

[They  descend  the  rocks  and  exeunt. 

Synorix  ( watching  her.  Aside.).  The 
bust  of  Juno  and  the  brows  and 
eyes 


THE  CUP. 


717 


Of  Venus;  face  and  form  unmatchable ! 

Antonius.  Why  do  you  look  at  her 
so  lingeringly  ? 

Synorix.  To  see  if  years  have 
changed  her. 

Antonius  ( sarcastically ).  Love  her, 
do  you  1 

Synorix.  I envied  Sinnatus  when 
he  married  her. 

Antonius.  She  knows  it  ? Ha! 

Synorix.  She  — no,  nor  ev’n  my 
face. 

Antonius.  Nor  Sinnatus  either  ? 

Synorix.  No,  nor  Sinnatus. 

Antonius.  Hot-blooded ! I have 
heard  them  say  in  Rome, 

That  your  own  people  cast  you  from 
their  bounds, 

From  some  unprincely  violence  to  a 
woman, 

As  Rome  did  Tarquin. 

Synorix.  Well,  if  this  were  so, 

I here  return  like  Tarquin  — for  a 
crown. 

Antonius.  And  may  be  foil’d  like 
Tarquin,  if  you  follow 

Not  the  dry  light  of  Rome’s  straight- 
going policy, 

But  the  fool-fire  of  love  or  lust,  which 
well 

May  make  you  lose  yourself,  may 
even  drown  you 

In  the  good  regard  of  Rome. 

Synorix.  Tut  — fear  me  not ; 

I ever  had  my  victories  among  women. 

I am  most  true  to  Rome. 

Antonius  [aside).  I hate  the  man  ! 

What  filthy  tools  our  Senate  works 
with ! Still 

I must  obey  them.  (Aloud.)  Fare  you 
well.  [Going. 

Synorix.  Farew’ell ! 

Antonius  (stopping).  A moment!  If 
you  track  this  Sinnatus 

In  any  treason,  I give  you  here  an 
order  [ Produces  a paper. 

To  seize  upon  him.  Let  me  sign  it. 
( Signs  it.)  There 

“Antonius  leader  of  the  Roman 
Legion.” 

[Hands  the  paper  to  Synorix.  Goes 
up  pathway  and  exit. 


Synorix.  W oman  again  ! — but  I am 
wiser  now. 

No  rushing  on  the  game  — the  net,  — 
the  net. 

[Shouts  of“  Sinnatus!  Sinnatus  ! ” 
Then  horn. 

( Looking  off  stage.)  He  comes,  a rough, 
bluff,  simple-looking  fellow. 

If  we  may  judge  the  kernel  by  thehusk, 

Not  one  to  keep  a woman’s  fealty  when 

Assailed  by  Craft  and  Love.  I’ll  join 
with  him : 

I may  reap  something  from  him  — 
come  upon  her 

Again,  perhaps,  to-day  — her.  Who 
are  with  him  1 

I see  no  face  that  knows  me.  Shall 
I risk  it  ? 

I am  a Roman  now,  they  dare  not 
touch  me. 

I will. 


Enter  Sinnatus,  Huntsmen  and 
hounds. 

Fair  Sir,  a happy  day  to  you ! 

You  reck  but  little  of  the  Roman  here, 

While  you  can  take  your  pastime  in 
the  woods. 

Sinnatus.  Ay,  ay,  why  not  t What 
would  you  with  me,  man  ? 

Synorix.  I am  a life-long  lover  of 
the  chase, 

And  tho’  a stranger  fain  would  be 
allow’d 

To  join  the  hunt. 

Sinnatus.  Your  name  1 

Synorix.  Strato,  my  name. 

Sinnatus.  No  Roman  name  ? 

Synorix.  A Greek,  my  lord;  you 
know 

That  we  Galatians  are  both  Greek 
and  Gaul. 

[Shouts  and  horns  in  the  distance. 

Sinnatus.  Hillo,  the  stag!  (To 
Synorix.)  What,  you  are  all 
unfurnish’d  ? 

Give  him  a bow  and  arrows  — follow 
— follow. 

[Exit,  followed  by  Huntsmen. 

Synorix.  Slowly  but  surely — till 
I see  my  way. 


718 


THE  CUP. 


It  is  the  one  step  in  the  dark  beyond 
Our  expectation,  that  amazes  us. 

[. Distant  shouts  and  horns. 

Hillo ! Hillo ! 

\_Exit  Synorix.  Shouts  and  horns. 


SCENE  II.  — A Room  in  the  Te- 
trarch’s  House. 

Frescoed  figures  on  the  wall.  Evening. 
Moonlight  outside.  A couch  with 
cushions  on  it.  A small  table  with 
fiagon  of  wine,  cups , plate  of  grapes, 
etc.,  also  the  cup  of  Scene  I.  A chair 
ivith  drapery  on  it. 

Camma  enters  and  opens  curtains  of 
window. 

Camma.  No  Sinnatus  yet  — and 
there  the  rising  moon. 

[Takes  up  a cithern  and  sits  on 
couch.  Plays  and  sings. 

“ Moon  on  the  field  and  the  foam, 
Moon  on  the  waste  and  the  wold, 

Moon  bring  him  home,  bring  him 
home 

Safe  from  the  dark  and  the  cold, 

Home,  sweet  home,  bring  him  home, 
Home  with  the  flock  to  the  fold  — 

Safe  from  the  wolf  ” 

(Listening.)  Is  he  coming?  I thought 
I heard 

A footstep.  No  not  yet.  They  say 
that  Rome 

Sprang  from  a wolf.  I fear  my  dear 
lord  mixt 

With  some  conspiracy  against  the 
wolf. 

This  mountain  shepherd  never  dream’d 
of  Rome. 

(Sings.)  “Safe  from  the  wolf  to  the 
fold” 

And  that  great  break  of  precipice 
that  runs 

Thro’  all  the  wood,  where  twenty 
years  ago 

Huntsman,  and  hound,  and  deer  were 
all  neck-broken ! 

Nay,  here  he  comes. 


Enter  Sinnatus  followed  by  Synorix. 

Sinnatus  (angrily).  I tell  thee,  my 
good  feilow, 

My  arrow  struck  the  stag. 

Synorix.  But  was  it  so  ? 

Nay,  you  were  further  off : besides 
the  wind 

Went  with  my  arrow. 

Sinnatus.  I am  sure  I struck  him. 

Synorix.  And  I am  just  as  sure, 
my  lord,  I struck  him. 

(Aside.)  And  I may  strike  your 
game  when  you  are  gone. 

Camma.  Come,  come,  we  will  not 
quarrel  about  the  stag. 

I have  had  a weary  day  in  watching 
you. 

Yours  must  have  been  a wearier.  Sit 
and  eat, 

And  take  a hunter’s  vengeance  on  the 
meats. 

Sinnatus.  No,  no  — we  have  eaten 
— we  are  heated.  Wine  ! 

Camma.  Who  is  our  guest  ? 

Sinnatus.  Strato  he  calls  himself. 
[Camma  offers  wine  to  Synorix, 
while  Sinnatus  helps  himself  ] 

Sinnatus.  I pledge  you,  Strato. 

[Drinks. 

Synorix.  And  I you,  my  lord. 

[Drinks. 

Sinnatus  (seeing  the  cup  sent  to  Cam- 
ma). What’s  here? 

Camma.  A strange  gift  sent  to  me 
to-day. 

A sacred  cup  saved  from  a blazing 
shrine 

Of  our  great  Goddess,  in  some  city 
where 

Antonius  past.  I had  believed  that 
Rome 

Made  war  upon  the  peoples  not  the 
Gods. 

Synorix.  Most  like  the  city  rose 
against  Antonius, 

Whereon  he  fired  it,  and  the  sacred 
shrine 

By  chance  was  burnt  along  with  it. 

Sinnatus.  Had  you  then 

No  message  with  tlie  cup  ? 


THE  CUP. 


719 


Camma.  Why,  yes,  see  here. 

[ Gives  him  the  scroll. 

Sinnatus  (reads).  “ To  the  admired 
Camma,  — beheld  you  afar  off  — 
loved  you  — sends  you  this  cup  — 
the  cup  we  use  in  our  marriages 
— cannot  at  present  write  himself 
other  than 

“ A Galatian  serving  by  force 
in  the  Roman  Legion.” 

Serving  by  force ! Were  there  no 
boughs  to  hang  on, 

Rivers  to  drown  in  ? Serve  by  force  ? 
No  force 

Could  make  me  serve  by  force. 

Synorix.  How  then,  my  lord  ? 

The  Roman  is  encampt  without  your 
city  — 

The  force  of  Rome  a thousand-fold 
our  own. 

Must  all  Galatia  hang  or  drown  her- 
self ? 

And  you  a Prince  and  Tetrarch  in  this 
province 

Sinnatus.  Province ! 

Synorix.  Well,  well,  they  call  it  so 
in  Rome. 

Sinnatus  (angrily).  Province! 

Synorix.  A noble  anger ! but  An- 
tonius 

To-morrow  will  demand  your  tribute 
— you, 

Can  you  make  war  ? Have  you  al- 
liances ? 

Bithynia,  Pontus,  Paphlagonia  ? 

We  have  had  our  leagues  of  old  with 
Eastern  kings. 

There  is  my  hand  — if  such  a league 
there  be. 

What  will  you  do  ? 

Sinnatus.  Not  set  myself  abroach 
And  run  my  mind  out  to  a random 
guest 

Who  join’d  me  in  the  hunt.  You  saw 
my  hounds 

True  to  the  scent ; and  we  have  two- 
legg’d  dogs 

Among  us  who  can  smell  a true  oc- 
casion, 

And  when  to  bark  and  how. 

Synorix.  My  good  Lord  Sinnatus, 


I once  was  at  the  hunting  of  a lion. 

Roused  by  the  clamor  of  the  chase  he 
woke, 

Came  to  the  front  of  the  wood  — his 
monarch  mane 

Bristled  about  his  quick  ears  — he 
stood  there 

Staring  upon  the  hunter.  A score  of 
dogs 

Gnaw’d  at  his  ankles : at  the  last  he 
felt 

The  trouble  of  his  feet,  put  forth  one 
paw, 

Slew  four,  and  knew  it  not,  and  so  re- 
main’d 

Staring  upon  the  hunter : and  this 
Rome 

Will  crush  you  if  you  wrestle  with 
her ; then 

Save  for  some  slight  report  in  her 
own  Senate 

Scarce  know  what  she  has  done. 

(Aside.)  Would  I could  move  him, 

Provoke  him  any  way  ! (Aloud.)  The 
Lady  Camma, 

Wise  I am  sure  as  she  is  beautiful, 

Will  close  with  me  that  to  submit  at 
once 

Is  better  than  a wholly-hopeless  war, 

Our  gallant  citizens  murder’d  all  in 
vain, 

Son,  husband,  brother  gash’d  to  death 
in  vain, 

And  the  small  state  more  cruelly 
trampled  on 

Than  had  she  never  moved. 

Camma.  Sir,  I had  once 

A boy  who  died  a babe ; but  were  he 
living 

And  grown  to  man  and  Sinnatus  will’d 
it,  I 

Would  set  him  in  the  front  rank  of 
the  fight 

With  scarce  a pang.  (Rises.)  Sir,  if 
a state  submit 

At  once,  she  may  be  blotted  out  at  once 

And  swallow’d  in  the  conqueror’s 
chronicle. 

Whereas  in  wars  of  freedom  and  de- 
fence 

The  glory  and  grief  of  battle  won  or 
lost 


720 


THE  CUP. 


Solders  a race  together  — yea  — tho’ 
they  fail, 

The  names  of  those  who  fought  and 
fell  are  like 

A bank’d-up  fire  that  flashes  out 
again 

From  century  to  century,  and  at  last 

May  lead  them  on  to  victory  — I hope 
so  — 

Like  phantoms  of  the  Gods. 

Sinnatus.  Well  spoken,  wife. 

Synorix  (bowing).  Madam,  so  well  I 
yield. 

Sinnatus.  I should  not  wonder 

If  Synorix,  who  has  dwelt  three  years 
in  Rome 

And  wrought  his  worst  against  his 
native  land, 

Returns  with  this  Antonius. 

Synorix.  What  is  Synorix  ? 

Sinnatus.  Galatian,  and  not  know  ? 
This  Synorix. 

Was  Tetrarch  here,  and  tyrant  also  — 
did 

Dishonor  to  our  wives. 

Synorix.  Perhaps  you  judge  him 

With  feeble  charity  : being  as  you  tell 
me 

Tetrarch,  there  might  be  willing  wives 
enough 

To  feel  dishonor,  honor. 

Camma.  Do  not  say  so. 

I know  of  no  such  wives  in  all  Ga- 
latia. 

There  may  be  courtesans  for  aught  I 
know 

Whose  life  is  one  dishonor. 

Enter  Attendant. 

Attendant  (aside).  My  lord,  the  men  ! 

Sinnatus  (aside).  Our  anti-Roman 
faction  1 

Attendant  (aside).  Ay,  my  lord. 

Synorix  (overhearing).  (Aside.)  I 

have  enough  — their  anti-Ro- 
man faction. 

Sinnatus  (aloud).  Some  friends  of 
mine  would  speak  with  me 
without. 

You,  Strato,  make  good  cheer  till  I 
return.  [Exit. 


Synorix.  I have  much  to  say,  no 
time  to  say  it  in. 

First,  lady,  know  myself  am  that 
Galatian 

Who  sent  the  cup. 

Camma.  I thank  you  from  my  heart. 

Synorix.  Then  that  I serve  with 
Rome  to  serve  Galatia. 

That  is  my  secret:  keepit,  oryousellme 

Totormentandtodeath.  [Coming closer. 

For  your  ear  only  — 

I love  you  — for  your  love  to  the 
great  Goddess. 

The  Romans  sent  me  here  a spy  upon 
you, 

To  draw  you  and  your  husband  to  your 
doom. 

I’d  sooner  die  than  do  it. 

[ Takes  out  paper  given  him  by  An- 
tonius. 

This  paper  sign’d 

Antonius  — will  you  take  it,  read  it  ? 
there ! 

Camma  (reads).  “You  are  to  seize 
on  Sinnatus,  — if  — ” 

Synorix  ( snatches  paper).  No  more. 

What  follows  is  for  no  wife’s  eyes.  O 
Camma, 

Rome  has  a glimpse  of  this  con- 
spiracy ; 

Rome  never  yet  hath  spar’d  con- 
spirator. 

Horrible  ! flaying,  scourging,  crucify- 
ing— 

Camma.  I am  tender  enough.  Why 
do  you  practise  on  me  ? 

Synorix.  Why  should  I practise  on 
you  ? How  you  wrong  me  ! 

I am  sure  of  being  every  way  malign’d. 

And  if  you  should  betray  me  to  your 
husband  — 

Camma.  Will  you  betray  him  by 
this  order  i 

S ynorix.  See, 

I tear  it  all  to  pieces,  never  dream’d 

Of  acting  on  it.  [Tears  the  paper. 

Camma.  I owe  you  thanks  for  ever. 

Synorix.  Hath  Sinnatus  never  told 
you  of  this  plot  ? 

Camma.  What  plot  1 

Synorix.  A child’s  sand-castle  on 
the  beach 


THE  CUP. 


721 


For  the  next  wave — all  seen,  — all 
calculated, 

All  known  by  Rome.  No  chance  for 
Sinnatus. 

Camma.  Why,  said  you  not  as  much 
to  my  brave  Sinnatus  ? 

Synorix.  Brave  — ay  — too  brave, 
too  over-confident, 

Too  like  to  ruin  himself,  and  you,  and 
me ! 

Who  else,  with  this  black  thunderbolt 
of  Rome 

Above  him,  would  have  chased  the 
stag  to-day 

In  the  full  face  of  all  the  Roman 
camp  ? 

A miracle  that  they  let  him  home 
again, 

Not  caught,  maim’d,  blinded  him. 

[Camma  shudders. 

(Aside.)  I have  made  her  tremble. 

(Aloud.)  I know  they  mean  to  torture 
him  to  death. 

I dare  not  tell  him  how  I came  to 
know  it ; 

I durst  not  trust  him  with  — my  serv- 
ing Rome 

To  serve  Galatia : you  heard  him  on 
the  letter. 

Not  say  as  much  ? I all  but  said  as 
much. 

I am  sure  I told  him  that  his  plot  was 
folly. 

I say  it  to  you  — you  are  wiser  — Rome 
knows  all, 

But  you  know  not  the  savagery  of 
Rome. 

Camma.  O — have  you  power  with 
Rome  ? use  it  for  him  ! 

Synorix.  Alas ! I have  no  such  power 
with  Rome.  All  that 

Lies  with  Antonius. 

[As  if  struck  by  a sudden  thought. 
Comes  over  to  her. 

He  will  pass  to-morrow 

In  the  gray  dawn  before  the  Temple 
doors. 

You  have  beauty,  — 0 great  beauty, 
— and  Antonius, 

So  gracious  toward  women,  never  yet 

Flung  back  a woman’s  prayer.  Plead 
to  him, 


I am  sure  you  will  prevail. 

Camma.  Still  — I should  tell 

My  husband. 

Synorix.  Will  he  let  you  plead  for 
him 

To  a Roman  ? 

Camma.  I fear  not. 

Synorix.  Then  do  not  tell  him. 

Or  tell  him,  if  you  will,  when  you  re- 
turn, 

When  you  have  charm’d  our  general 
into  mercy, 

And  all  is  safe  again.  O dearest  lady, 
[ Murmurs  of  “ Synorix ! Synorix !” 
heard  outside. 

Think, — torture, — death, — and  come. 

Camma.  I will,  I will. 

And  I will  not  betray  you. 

Synorix  (aside.  As  Sinnatus  enters.). 
Stand  apart. 

Enter  Sinnatus  and  Attendant. 

Sinnatus.  Thou  art  that  Synorix ! 
One  whom  thou  hast  wrong’d 

Without  there,  knew  thee  with  An- 
topius. 

They  howl  for  thee,  to  rend  thee  head 
from  limb. 

Synorix.  I am  much  malign’d.  I 
thought  to  serve  Galatia. 

Sinnatus.  Serve  thyself  first,  villain ! 
They  shall  not  harm 

My  guest  within  my  house.  There ! 
(points  to  door)  there  ! this  door 

Opens  upon  the  forest!  Out,  begone  ! 

Henceforth  I am  thy  mortal  enemy. 

Synorix.  However  I thank  thee 
(draws  his  sicord)  ; thou  hast 
saved  my  life.  [Exit. 

Sinnatus  (to  Attendant).  Return  and 
tell  them  Synorix  is  not  here. 

[Exit  Attendant. 

What  did  that  villain  Synorix  say  to 
you? 

Camma.  Is  he  — that  — Synorix  ? 

Sinnatus.  Wherefore  should  you 
doubt  it  ? 

One  of  the  men  there  knew  him. 

Camma.  Only  one, 

And  he  perhaps  mistaken  in  the  face. 

Sinnatus.  Come,  come,  could  he 
deny  it  ? What  did  he  say  ? 


722 


THE  CUT. 


Camma.  What  should  he  say  ? 

Sinnatus.  What  should  he  say,  my 
wife ! 

He  should  say  this,  that  being  Tetrarch 
once 

His  own  true  people  cast  him  from 
their  doors 

Like  a base  coin. 

Camma.  Not  kindly  to  them  ? 

Sinnatus.  Kindly  ? 

0 the  most  kindly  Prince  in  all  the 
world  ! 

Would  clap  his  honest  citizens  on  the 
back, 

Bandy  their  own  rude  jests  with  them, 
be  curious 

About  the  welfare  of  their  babes,  their 
wives, 

O ay  — their  wives  — their  wives. 
What  should  he  say  ? 

He  should  say  nothing  to  my  wife 
if  I 

Were  by  to  throttle  him  ! He  steep’d 
himself 

In  all  the  lust  of  Rome.  How  should 

you  guess 

What  manner  of  beast  it  is  ? 

Camma.  Yet  he  seem’d  kindly, 

And  said  he  loathed  the  cruelties  that 
Rome 

Wrought  on  her  vassals. 

Sinnatus.  Did  he,  honest  man  ? 

Camma.  And  you,  that  seldom  brook 
the  stranger  here, 

Have  let  him  hunt  the  stag  with  you 
to-day. 

Sinnatus.  I warrant  you  now,  he 
said  he  struck  the  stag. 

Camma.  Why  no,  he  never  touch’d 
upon  the  stag. 

Sinnatus.  Why  so  I said,  my  arrow. 
Well,  to  sleep. 

[ Goes  to  close  door. 

Camma.  Nay,  close  not  yet  the  door 
upon  a night 

That  looks  half  day. 

Sinnatus.  True ; and  my  friends 
may  spy  him 

And  slay  him  as  he  runs. 

Camma.  He  is  gone  already. 

Oh  look,  — yon  grove  upon  the  moun- 
tain, — white 


In  the  sweet  moon  as  with  a lovelier 
snow  ! 

But  what  a blotch  of  blackness  under- 
neath ! 

Sinnatus,  you  remember  — yea,  you 
must, 

That  there  three  years  ago  — the  vast 
vine-bowers 

Ran  to  the  summit  of  the  trees,  and 
dropt 

Their  streamers  earthward,  which  a 
breeze  of  May 

Took  ever  and  anon,  and  open’d  out 
The  purple  zone  of  hill  and  heaven  ; 
there 

You  told  your  love ; and  like  the  sway- 
ing vines  — 

Yea, — with  our  eyes,  — our  hearts, 
our  prophet  hopes 

Let  in  the  happy  distance,  and  that  all 
But  cloudless  heaven  which  we  have 
found  together 

In  our  three  married  years ! You 
kiss’d  me  there 

For  the  first  time.  Sinnatus,  kiss  me 
now. 

Sinnatus.  First  kiss.  (Kisses  her.) 
There  then.  You  talk  almost 
as  if  it 

Might  be  the  last. 

Camma.  Will  you  not  eat  a little  ? 

Sinnatus.  No,  no,  we  found  a goat- 
herd’s hut  and  shared 
His  fruits  and  milk.  Liar ! You  will 
believe 

Now  that  he  never  struck  the  stag  — 
a brave  one 

Which  you  shall  see  to-morrow. 

Camma.  I rise  to-morrow 

In  the  gray  dawn,  and  take  this  holy 
cup 

To  lodge  it  in  the  shrine  of  Artemis. 

Sinnatus.  Good ! 

Camma.  If  I be  not  back  in  half 
an  hour, 

Come  after  me. 

Sinnatus.  What!  is  there 

danger  ? 

Camma.  Nay, 

None  that  I know : ’tis  but  a step 
from  here 
To  the  Temple. 


THE  CUP. 


723 


Sinnatus.  All  my  brain  is  full  of 
sleep. 

Wake  me  before  you  go,  I’ll  after 
you  — 

After  me  now  ! [ Closes  door  and  exit. 

Camma  (drawing  curtains).  Your 
shadow.  Synorix  — 

His  face  was  not  malignant, and  he  said 

That  men  malign’d  him.  Shall  I go  ? 
Shall  I go  ? 

Death,  torture  — 

“ He  never  yet  flung  back  a woman’s 
prayer  ” — 

I go,  but  I will  have  my  dagger  with 
me.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.  — Same  as  Scene  I. 

Dawn. 

Music  and  Singing  in  the  Temple. 

Enter  Synorix  watchfully , after  him 
Publius  and  Soldiers. 

Synorix.  Publius! 

Publius.  Here ! 

Synorix.  Do  you  remember  what 

I told  you  ? 

Publius.  When  you  cry  “ Rome, 

Rome,”  to  seize 

On  whomsoever  may  be  talking  with 
you, 

Or  man,  or  woman,  as  traitors  unto 
Rome. 

Synorix.  Right.  Back  again.  How 
many  of  you  are  there  ? 

Publius.  Some  half  a score. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers  and  Publius. 

Synorix.  I have  my  guard 

about  me. 

I need  not  fear  the  crowd  that  hunted 
me 

Across  the  woods,  last  night.  I hardly 
gain’d 

The  camp  at  midnight.  Will  she 
come  to  me 

Now  that  she  knows  me  Synorix  ? 
Not  if  Sinnatus 

Has  told  her  all  the  truth  about  me. 
Well, 

I cannot  help  the  mould  that  I was 
cast  in. 


I fling  all  that  upon  my  fate,  my 
star. 

I know  that  I am  genial,  I would  be 
Happy,  and  make  all  others  happy  so 
They  did  not  thwart  me.  Nay,  she 
will  not  come. 

Yet  if  she  be  a true  and  loving  wife 
She  may,  perchance,  to  save  this 
husband.  Ay ! 

See,  see,  my  white  bird  stepping 
toward  the  snare. 

Why  now  I count  it  all  but  miracle, 
That  this  brave  heart  of  mine  should 
shake  me  so, 

As  helplessly  as  some  unbearded  boy’s 
When  first  he  meets  his  maiden  in  a 
bower. 

Enter  Camma  (with  cup). 

Synorix.  The  lark  first  takes  the 
sunlight  on  his  wing, 

But  you,  twin  sister  of  the  morning 
star, 

Forelead  the  sun. 

Camma.  Where  is  Antonius  ? 

Synorix.  Not  here  as  yet.  You  are 
too  early  for  him. 

[She  crosses  towards  Temple. 

Synorix.  Nay,  whither  go  you  now  ? 

Camma.  To  lodge  this  cup 

Within  the  holy  shrine  of  Artemis, 
And  so  return. 

Synorix.  To  find  Antonius  here. 

[She  goes  into  the  Temple,  he  looks 
after  her. 

The  loveliest  life  that  ever  drew  the 
light 

From  heaven  to  brood  upon  her,  and 
enrich 

Earth  with  her  shadow ! I trust  she 
will  return. 

These  Romans  dare  not  violate  the 
Temple. 

No,  I must  lure  my  game  into  the 
camp. 

A woman  I could  live  and  die  for. 
What! 

Die  for  a woman,  what  new  faith  is 
this  'i 

I am  not  mad,  not  sick,  not  old  enough 
To  doat  on  one  alone.  Yes,  mad  for 
her, 


724 


THE  CUP. 


Camma  the  stately,  Camma  the  great- 
hearted, 

So  mad,  I fear  some  strange  and  evil 
chance 

Coming  upon  me,  for  by  the  Gods  I 
seem 

Strange  to  myself. 

Re-enter  Camma. 

Camma.  Where  is  Antonius  ? 

Synorix.  Where  ? As  I said  before, 
you  are  still  too  early. 

Camma.  Too  early  to  be  here  alone 
with  thee ; 

For  whether  men  malign  thy  name,  or 
no, 

It  bears  an  evil  savor  among  women. 

Where  is  Antonius  ? {Loud.) 

Synorix.  Madam,  as  you  know, 

The  camp  is  half  a league  without  the 
city  ; 

If  you  will  walk  with  me  we  needs 
must  meet 

Antonius  coming,  or  at  least  shall 
find  him 

There  in  the  camp. 

Camma.  No,  not  one  step  with 
thee. 

Where  is  Antonius  'i  [Louder.) 

Synorix  [advancing  towards  her). 

Then  for  your  own  sake, 

Lady,  I say  it  with  all  gentleness, 

And  for  the  sake  of  Sinnatus  your 
husband, 

I must  compel  you. 

Camma  [drawing  her  dagger).  Stay  ! 
— too  near  is  death. 

Synorix  [disarming  her).  Is  it  not 
easy  to  disarm  a woman  1 

Enter  Sinnatus  [seizes  him  from  behind 
by  the  throat). 

Synorix  [ throttled  and  scarce  audible). 

Rome ! Rome ! 

Sinnatus.  Adulterous  dog ! 

Synorix  [stabbing  him  with  Camma’ s 
dagger).  What!  will  you  have 
it  ? 

[Camma  utters  a cry  and  runs  to 
Sinnatus. 


Sinnatus  ( falls  backward).  I have  it 
in  my  heart  — to  the  Temple  — 
fly  — 

For  my  sake  — or  they  seize  on  thee. 
Remember ! 

Away  — farewell ! \_Dies. 

Camma  [runs  up  the  steps  into  the 
Temple , looking  back).  Fare- 
well ! 

Synorix  [seeing  her  escape).  The 
women  of  the  Temple  drag  her 
in. 

Publius ! Publius ! No, 

Antonius  would  not  suffer  me  to 
break 

Into  the  sanctuary.  She  hath  escaped. 

[. Looking  down  at  Sinnatus. 

“Adulterous  dog!”  that  red-faced 
rage  at  me ! 

Then  with  one  quick  short  stab  — 
eternal  peace. 

So  end  all  passions.  Then  what  use 
in  passions  ? 

To  warm  the  cold  bounds  of  our  dying 
life 

And,  lest  we  freeze  in  mortal  apathy, 

Employ  us,  heat  us,  quicken  us,  help 
us,  keep  us 

From  seeing  all  too  near  that  urn, 
those  ashes 

Which  all  must  be.  Well  used,  they 
serve  us  well. 

I heard  a saying  in  Egypt,  that  am- 
bition 

Is  like  the  sea  wave,  which  the  more 
you  drink, 

The  more  you  thirst  — yea  — drink 
too  much,  as  men 

Have  done  on  rafts  of  wreck — it 
drives  you  mad. 

I will  be  no  such  wreck,  am  no  such 
gamester 

As,  having  won  the  stake,  would  dare 
the  chance 

Of  double,  or  losing  all.  The  Roman 
Senate, 

For  I have  always  play’d  into  their 
hands, 

Means  me  the  crown.  And  Camma 
for  my  bride  — 

The  people  love  her  — if  I win  her 
love, 


THE  CUP. 


725 


They  too  will  cleave  to  me,  as  one 
with  her. 

There  then  I rest,  Rome’s  tributary 
king. 

[Looking  down  on  Sinnatus. 

Why  did  I strike  him  ? — having 
proof  enough 

Against  the  man,  I surely  should  have 
left 

That  stroke  to  Rome.  He  saved  my 
life  too.  Did  he  ? 

It  seem’d  so.  I have  play’d  the  sud- 
den fool. 

And  that  sets  her  against  me  — for  the 
moment. 

Camma — well,  well,  I never  found 
the  woman 

I could  not  force  or  wheedle  to  my 
will. 

She  will  be  glad  at  last  to  wear  my 
crown. 

And  I will  make  Galatia  prosperous 
too, 

And  we  will  chirp  among  our  vines, 
and  smile 

At  bygone  things  till  that  ( pointing  to 
Sinnatus)  eternal  peace. 

Rome ! Rome ! 


Enter  Publius  and  Soldiers. 

Twice  I cried  Rome.  Why  came  ye 
not  before  ? 

Publius.  Why  come  we  now  ? 

Whom  shall  we  seize  upon  ? 
Synorix  ( pointing  to  the  body  of 
Sinnatus).  The  body  of  that 
dead  traitor  Sinnatus. 

Bear  him  away. 

[Music  and  Singing  in  Temple. 


ACT  II. 

SCEJpS. — Interior  of  the  Temple 
of  Artemis. 

Small  gold  gates  on  platform  in  front  of 
the  veil  before  the  colossal  statue  of  the 
Goddess,  and  in  the  centre  of  the 
Temple  a tripod  altar , on  which  is  a 


lighted  lamp.  Lamps  ( lighted ) sus- 
pended between  each  pillar.  Tripods, 
vases,  garlands  of  flowers,  etc.,  about 
stage.  Altar  at  back  close  to  God- 
dess, with  two  cups.  Solemn  music. 
Priestesses  decorating  the  Temple. 

Enter  a Priestess. 

Priestess.  Phoebe,  that  man  from 
Synorix,  who  has  been 
So  oft  to  see  the  Priestess,  waits  once 
more 

Before  the  Temple. 

Phoebe.  We  will  let  her  know. 

[Signs  to  one  of  the  Priestesses, 
who  goes  out. 

Since  Camma  fled  from  Synorix  to  our 
Temple, 

And  for  her  beauty,  stateliness,  and 
power, 

Was  chosen  Priestess  here,  have  you 
not  mark’d 

Her  eyes  were  ever  on  the  marble 
floor  ? 

To-day  they  are  fixt  and  bright  — 
they  look  straight  out. 

Hath  she  made  up  her  mind  to  marry 
him  ? 

Priestess.  Tomarry  him  who  stabb’d 
her  Sinnatus. 

You  will  not  easily  make  me  credit 
that. 

Phoebe.  Ask  her. 

Enter  Camma  as  Priestess  (in  front  of 
the  curtains). 

Priestess.  You  will  not  marry 
Synorix  ? 

Camma.  My  girl,  I am  the  bride  of 
Death,  and  only 
Marry  the  dead. 

Priestess.  Not  Synorix  then  ? 
Camma.  My  girl, 

At  times  this  oracle  of  great  Artemis 
Has  no  more  power  than  other  oracles 
To  speak  directly. 

Phoebe.  Will  you  speak  to  him, 
The  messenger  from  Synorix  who  waits 
Before  the  Temple  ? 

Comma.  Why  not  ? Let  him  enter. 

[Comes  forward  on  to  step  by  tripod. 


726 


THE  CUP. 


Enter  a Messenger. 

Messenger  (kneels).  Greeting  and 
health  from  Synorix!  More 
than  once 

You  have  refused  his  hand.  When 
last  I saw  you, 

You  all  but  yielded.  He  entreats 
you  now 

For  your  last  answer.  When  he 
struck  at  Sinnatus  — 

As  I have  many  a time  declared  to 
you  — 

He  knew  not  at  the  moment  who  had 
fasten’d 

About  his  throat  — he  begs  you  to 
forget  it 

As  scarce  his  act : — a random  stroke  : 
all  else 

Was  love  for  you : he  prays  you  to 
believe  him. 

Camma.  I pray  him  to  believe  — 
that  I believe  him. 

Messenger.  Why  that  is  well.  You 
mean  to  marry  him  ? 

Camma.  I mean  to  marry  him  — if 
that  be  well. 

Messenger.  This  very  day  the  Ro- 
mans crown  him  king 

For  all  his  faithful  services  to  Rome. 

He  wills  you  then  this  day  to  marry 
him, 

And  so  be  throned  together  in  the 
sight 

Of  all  the  people,  that  the  world  may 
know 

You  twain  are  reconciled,  and  no 
more  feuds 

Disturb  our  peaceful  vassalage  to 
Rome. 

Camma.  To-day  ? Too  sudden.  I 
will  brood  upon  it. 

When  do  they  crown  him  ? 

Messenger.  Even  now. 

Camma.  And  where  ? 

Messenger.  Here  by  your  temple. 

Camma.  Come  once  more  to  me 

Before  the  crowning,  — I will  answer 
you. 

[ Exit  Messenger. 

Phoebe.  Great  Artemis  ! O Camma, 
can  it  be  well, 


Or  good,  or  wise,  that  you  should 
clasp  a hand 

Red  with  the  sacred  blood  of  Sinnatus  ? 

Camma.  Good!  mine  own  dagger 
driven  by  Synorix  found 
All  good  in  the  true  heart  of  Sinnatus, 
And  quench’d  it  there  for  ever.  Wise  ! 
Life  yields  to  death  and  wisdom  bows 
to  Fate, 

Is  wisest,  doing  so.  Did  not  this  man 
Speak  well?  We  cannot  fight  impe- 
rial Rome, 

But  he  and  I are  both  Galatian-born, 
And  tributary  sovereigns,  he  and  I, 
Might  teach  this  Rome  — from  knowl- 
edge of  our  people  — 

Where  to  lay  on  her  tribute  — heavily 
here 

And  lightly  there.  Might  I not  live 
for  that, 

And  drown  all  poor  self-passion  in 
the  sense 
Of  public  good  ? 

Phoebe.  I am  sure  you  will  not  mar- 
ry him. 

Camma.  Are  you  so  sure  ? I pray 
you  wait  and  see. 

\_Shouts  ( from  the  distance), 
“ Synorix  ! ” “ Synorix ! ” 

Camma.  Synorix,  Synorix ! So  they 
cried  Sinnatus 

Not  so  long  since  — they  sicken  me. 
The  One 

Who  shifts  his  policy  suffers  some- 
thing, must 

Accuse  himself,  excuse  himself;  the 
Many 

Will  feel  no  shame  to  give  themselves 
the  lie. 

Phoebe.  Most  like  it  was  the  Roman 
soldier  shouted. 

Camma.  Their  shield-borne  patriot 
of  the  morning  star 
Hang’d  at  mid-day,  their  traitor  of 
the  dawn 

The  clamor’d  darling  of  their  ^after- 
noon ! 

And  that  same  head  they  would  have 
play’d  at  ball  with, 

And  kick’d  it  featureless  — they  now 
would  crown. 

[ Flourish  of  trumpets. 


THE  CUP. 


727 


Enter  a Galatian  Nobleman  with  crown 
on  a cushion. 

Noble  (kneels).  Greeting  and  health 
from  Synorix.  He  sends  you 

This  diadem  of  the  first  Galatian 
Queen, 

That  you  may  feed  your  fancy  on  the 
glory  of  it, 

And  join  your  life  this  day  with  his, 
and  wear  it 

Beside  him  on  his  throne.  He  waits 
your  answer. 

Gamma.  Tell  him  there  is  one 
shadow  among  the  shadows, 

One  ghost  of  all  the  ghosts  — as  yet 
so  new, 

So  strange  among  them — such  an 
alien  there, 

So  much  of  husband  in  it  still  — that  if 

The  shout  of  Synorix  and  Camma  sit- 

-i  ng 

Upon  one  throne,  should  reach  it,  it 
would  rise. 

He  ! . . . He,  with  that  red  star  be- 
tween the  ribs, 

And  my  knife  there  — and  blast  the 
king  and  me, 

And  blanch  the  crowd  with  horror.  I 
dare  not,  sir ! 

Throne  him  — and  then  the  marriage 
— ay  and  tell  him 

That  I accept  the  diadem  of  Galatia  — 
\_All  are  amazed. 

Yea,  that  ye  saw  rhe  crown  myself 
withal.  [ Puts  on  the  crown. 

I wait  him  his  crown’d  queen. 

Noble.  So  will  I tell  him. 

[Exit. 

Music.  T wo  Priestesses  go  up  the  steps 
before  the  shrine,  draw  the  curtains  on 
either  side  ( discovering  the  Goddess), 
then  open  the  gates  and  remain  on 
steps,  one  on  either  side,  and  kneel. 
A Priestess  goes  off  and  returns  with 
a veil  of  marriage,  then  assists  Phoebe 
to  veil  Camma.  At  the  same  time 
Priestesses  enter  and  stand  on  either 
side  of  the  Temple.  Camma  and  all 
the  Priestesses  kneel,  raise  their 


hands  to  the  Goddess,  and  bow 
down. 

[Shouts,  “ Synorix ! Synorix  ! ” 
All  rise. 

Camma.  Fling  wide  the  doors,  and 
let  the  new-made  children 

Of  our  imperial  mother  see  the  show. 

[Sunlight  pours  through  the  doors. 

I have  no  heart  to  do  it.  ( To  Phoebe.) 
Look  for  me ! 

[Crouches.  Phoebe  looks  out.. 

[Shouts,  “ Synorix  ! Synorix  ! ” 
Phoebe.  He  climbs  the  throne. 
Hot  blood,  ambition,  pride 

So  bloat  and  redden  his  face  — O 
would  it  were 

His  third  last  apoplexy  ! O bestial ! 

O how  unlike  our  goodly  Sinnatus. 
Camma  (on  the  ground).  You  wrong 
him  surely  ; far  as  the  face  goes 

A goodlier-looking  man  than  Sinnatus. 
Phoebe  (aside).  How  dare  she  say 
it  'i  I could  hate  her  for  it 

But  that  she  is  distracted. 

[A  flourish  of  trumpeis. 
Camma.  Is  he  crown’d  ? 

Phoebe.  Ay,  there  they  crown  him. 

[Crowd  without  shout,  “Synorix! 
Synorix!  ” 

Camma  (rises). 

[A  Priestess  brings  a box  of  spices 
to  Camma  who  throws  them  on  the 
altar  flame. 

Rouse  the  dead  altar-flame,  fling  in 
the  spices, 

Nard,  Cinnamon,  amomum,  benzoin. 

Let  all  the  air  reel  into  a mist  of  odor, 

As  in  the  midmost  heart  of  Paradise. 

Lay  down  the  Lydian  carpets  for  the 
king. 

The  king  should  pace  on  purple  to  his 
bride, 

And  music  there  to  greet  my  lord  the 
king.  [Music. 

(To  Phoebe.)  Dost  thou  remember 
when  I wedded  Sinnatus  ? 

Ay,  thou  wast  there  — whether  from 
maiden  fears 

Or  reverential  love  for  him  I loved, 

Or  some  strange  second-sight,  the 
marriage-cup 


728 


THE  CUP. 


Wherefrom  we  make  libation  to  the 
Goddess 

So  shook  within  my  hand,  that  the  red 
wine 

Ran  down  the  marble  and  lookt  like 
blood,  like  blood. 

Phoebe.  I do  remember  your  first- 
marriage  fears. 

Comma.  I have  no  fears  at  this  my 
second  marriage. 

See  here  — I stretch  my  hand  out  — 
hold  it  there. 

How  steady  it  is  ! 

Phoebe.  Steady  enough  to  stab  him  ! 
Camma.  0 hush ! O peace  ! This 
violence  ill  becomes 

The  silence  of  our  Temple  . Gentleness, 

Low  words  best  chime  with  this  solem- 
nity. 

Enter  a procession  of  Priestesses  and 
Children  bearing  garlands  and  golden 
goblets,  and  strewing  flowers. 

Enter  Synorix  (as  King,  with  gold  lau- 
rel-wreath crown  and  purple  robes), 
followed  bg  Antonius,  Publius,  No- 
blemen, Guards,  and  the  Populace. 
Camma.  Hail,  King  ! 

Synorix.  Hail,  Queen  ! 

The  wheel  of  Fate  has  roll’d  me  to 
the  top. 

I would  that  happiness  were  gold, 
that  I 

Might  cast  my  largess  of  it  to  the 
crowd ! 

I would  that  every  man  made  feast 
to-day 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  our  pines  and 
planes ! 

For  all  my  truer  life  begins  to-day. 

The  past  is  like  a travell’d  land  now 
sunk 

Below  the  horizon  — like  a barren 
shore 

That  grew  salt  weeds,  but  now  all 
drown’d  in  love 

And  glittering  at  full  tide  — the  boun- 
teous bays 

And  havens  filling  with  a blissful  sea. 

Nor  speak  I now  too  mightily,  being 
King 


And  happy ! happiest,  Lady,  in  my 
power 

To  make  you  happy. 

Camma.  Yes,  sir. 

Synorix.  Our  Antonius, 

Our  faithful  friend  of  Rome,  tho’ 
Rome  may  set 

A free  foot  where  she  will,  yet  of  his 
courtesy 

Entreats  he  may  be  present  at  our 
marriage. 

Camma.  Let  him  come — a legion 
with  him,  if  he  will. 

(To  Antonius.)  Welcome,  my  lord 
Antonius,  to  our  Temple. 

(To  Synorix.)  You  on  this  side  the 
altar.  (To  Antonius.)  You  on 
that. 

Call  first  upon  the  Goddess,  Synorix. 

[All face  the  Goddess.  Priestesses, 
Children,  Populace  and  Guards 
kneel — the  others  remain  standing. 

Synorix.  O Thou,  that  dost  inspire 
the  germ  with  life, 

The  child,  a thread  within  the  house 
of  birth, 

And  give  him  limbs,  then  air,  and  send 
him  forth 

The  glory  of  his  father  — Thou  whose 
breath 

Is  balmy  wind  to  robe  our  hills  with 
grass, 

And  kindle  all  our  vales  with  myrtle- 
blossom, 

And  roll  the  golden  oceans  of  our  grain, 

And  sway  the  long  grape-bunches  of 
our  vines, 

And  fill  all  hearts  with  fatness  and 
the  lust 

Of  plenty  — make  me  happy  in  my 
marriage  ! 

Chorus  (chanting).  Artemis,  Arte- 
mis, hear  him,  Ionian  Artemis  ! 

Camma.  O Thou  that  slayest  the 
babe  within  the  womb 

Orintliebeingborn,orafter  slayest  him 

As  boy  or  man,  great  Goddess,  whose 
storm-voice 

Unsockets  the  strong  oak,  and  rears 
his  root 

Beyond  his  head,  and  strows  our 
fruits,  and  lays 


THE  CUP. 


729 


Our  golden  grain,  and  runs  to  sea  and 
makes  it 

Foam  over  all  the  fleeted  wealth  of 
kings 

And  peoples,  hear. 

Whose  arrow  is  the  plague  — whose 
quick  flash  splits 

The  mid-sea  mast,  and  rifts  the  tower 
to  the  rock, 

And  hurls  the  victor’s  column  down 
with  him 

That  crowns  it,  hear. 

Who  causest  the  safe  earth  to  shud- 
der and  gape, 

And  gulf  and  flatten  in  her  closing 
chasm 

Domed  cities,  hear. 

Whose  lava-torrents  blast  and  blacken 
a province 

To  a cinder,  hear. 

Whose  winter-cataracts  find  a realm 
and  leave  it 

A waste  of  rock  and  ruin,  hear.  I 
call  thee 

To  make  my  marriage  prosper  to  my 
wish ! 

Chorus.  Artemis,  Artemis,  hear  her, 
Ephesian  Artemis  ! 

Cavnma.  Artemis,  Artemis,  hear  me, 
Galatian  Artemis ! 

I call  on  our  own  Goddess  in  our  own 
Temple. 

Chorus.  Artemis,  Artemis,  hear  her, 
Galatian  Artemis  ! 

\_Thuncler.  All  rise. 

Synorix  (aside).  Thunder!  Ay,  ay, 
the  storm  was  drawing  hither 

Across  the  hills  when  I was  being 
crown’d. 

I wonder  if  I look  as  pale  as  she  'i 

Gamma.  Art  thou  — still  bent  — 
on  marrying  1 

Synorix.  Surely  — yet 

These  are  strange  words  to  speak  to 
Artemis. 

Gamma.  Words  are  not  always  what 
they  seem,  my  King. 

I will  be  faithful  to  thee  till  thou  die. 

Synorix.  I thank  thee,  Camma,  — I 
thank  thee. 

Camma  ( turning  to  Antonius).  An- 
tonius, 


Much  graced  are  we  that  our  Queen 
Rome  in  you 

Deigns  to  look  in  upon  our  barbarisms. 

[Turns,  goes  up  steps  to  altar  before 
the  Goddess.  Takes  a cup  from 
off  the  altar.  Holds  it  towards 
Antonius.  Antonius  goes  up 
to  the  foot  of  the  steps,  opposite  to 
Synorix. 

You  see  this  cup,  my  lord. 

[ Gives  it  to  him. 

Antonius.  Most  curious ! 

The  many-breasted  mother  Artemis 
Emboss’d  upon  it. 

Camma.  It  is  old,  I know  not 
How  many  hundred  years.  Give  it 
me  again. 

It  is  the  cup  belonging  our  own  Temple. 

[Puts  it  back  on  altar,  and  takes 
up  the  cup  of  Act  I.  Showing 
it  to  Antonius. 

Here  is  another  sacred  to  the  Goddess, 
The  gift  of  Synorix ; and  the  Goddess, 
being 

For  this  most  grateful,  wills,  thro’ 
me  her  Priestess, 

Inhonor  of  his  gift  and  of  our  marriage, 
That  Synorix  should  drink  from  his 
own  cup. 

Synorix.  I thank  thee,  Camma,  — I 
thank  thee. 

Camma.  For  — my  lord  — 

It  is  our  ancient  custom  in  Galatia 
That  ere  two  souls  be  knit  for  life  and 
death. 

They  two  should  drink  together  from 
one  cup, 

In  symbol  of  their  married  unity, 
Making  libation  to  the  Goddess. 
Bring  me 

The  costly  wines  we  use  in  marriages. 

[ They  bring  in’a  large  jar  of  wine. 
Camma  pours  wine  into  cup. 

(To  Synorix.)  See  here,  I fill  it.  (To 
Antonius.)  Will  you  drink, 
my  lord  ? 

Antonius.  1 1 Why  should  I ? I 
am  not  to  be  married. 

Camma.  But  that  might  bring  a 
Roman  blessing  on  us. 

Antonius  ( refusing  cup).  Thy  pardon, 
Priestess ! 


730 


THE  CUP. 


Camma.  Thou  art  in  the  right. 

This  blessing  is  for  Synorix  and  for 
me. 

See  first  I make  libation  to  the  God- 
dess, [ Makes  libation. 

And  now  I drink. 

[. Drinks  and  Jills  the  cup  again. 

Thy  turn,  Galatian  King. 

Drink  and  drink  deep  — our  marriage 
will  be  fruitful. 

Drink  and  drink  deep,  and  thou  wilt 
make  me  happy. 

[Synorix  goes  up  to  her.  She 
hands  him  the  cup.  He  drinks. 

Synorix.  There,  Camma!  I have 
almost  drain’d  the  cup  — 

A few  drops  left. 

Camma.  Libation  to  the  Goddess. 

[He  throws  the  remaining  drops  on 
the  altar  and  gives  Camma  the  cup. 

Camma,  ( placing  the  cup  on  the  altar). 
Why  then  the  Goddess  hears. 

\_Comes  down  and  forward  to 
tripod.  Antonius  follows. 

Antonius, 

Where  wast  thou  on  that  morning  when 
I came 

To  plead  to  thee  for  Sinnatus’s  life, 

Beside  this  temple  half  a year  ago  1 

Antonius.  I never  heard  of  this  re- 
quest of  thine. 

Synorix  ( coming  forward  hastily  to 
foot  of  tripod  steps).  I sought 
him  and  I could  not  find  him. 
Pray  you, 

Go  on  with  the  marriage  rites. 

Camma.  Antonius 

“ Camma  ! ” who  spake  1 

Antonius.  Not  I. 

Phoebe.  Nor  any  here. 

Camma.  I am  all  but  sure  that  some 
one  spake.  Antonius, 

If  you  had  found  him  plotting  against 
Rome, 

Would  you  have  tortured  Sinnatus  to 
death  ? 

Antonius.  No  thought  was  mine  of 
torture  or  of  death, 

But  had  I found  him  plotting,  I had 
counsell’d  him 

To  rest  from  vain  resistance.  Rome 
is  fated 


To  rule  the  world.  Then,  if  he  had 
not  listen’d, 

I might  have  sent  him  prisoner  to 
Rome. 

Synorix.  Why  do  you  palter  with 
the  ceremony  ? 

Go  with  the  marriage  rites. 

Camma.  They  are  finish’d. 

Synorix.  How! 

Camma.  Thou  hast  drunk  deep 
enough  to  make  me  happy. 

Dost  thou  not  feel  the  love  I bear  to 
thee 

Glow  thro’  thy  veins  ? 

Synorix.  The  love  I bear  to  thee 

Glows  thro’  my  veins  since  first  I 
look’d  on  thee. 

But  wherefore  slur  the  perfect  cere- 
mony ? 

The  sovereign  of  Galatia  weds  his 
Queen. 

Let  all  be  done  to  the  fullest  in  the 
sight 

Of  all  the  Gods.  (Starts.)  This  pain 

— what  is  it  ? — again  ? 

I had  a touch  of  this  last  year  — in  — 
Rome. 

Yes,  yes.  (To  Antonius.)  Your  arm 

— a moment  — It  will  pass. 

I reel  beneath  the  weight  of  utter 
joy  — 

This  all  too  happy  day,  crown  — 
queen  at  once.  [Staggers. 

O all  ye  Gods  — Jupiter! — Jupiter! 

[Falls  backward. 

Camma.  Dost  thou  cry  out  upon 
the  Gods  of  Rome  ! 

Thou  art  Galatian-born  ? Our  Artemis 

Has  vanquish’d  their  Diana. 

Synorix  (on  the  ground).  I am 
poison’d. 

She  — close  the  Temple  doors.  Let 
her  not  fly. 

Camma  (leaning  on  tripod).  Have  I 
not  drunk  of  the  same  cup  with 
thee  ? 

Synorix.  Ay,  by  the  Gods  of  Rome 
and  all  the  world, 

She  too  — she  too  — the  bride  ! the 
Queen  ! and  I — 

Monstrous  ! I that  loved  her. 

Camma.  I loved  him. 


THE  CUP. 


731 


Synorix.  O murderous  mad-woman! 
I pray  you  lift  me 

And  make  me  walk  awhile.  I have 
heard  these  poisons 

May  be  walk’d  down. 

[Antonius  and  Publius  raise 
him  up. 

My  feet  are  tons  of  lead, 

They  will  break  in  the  earth  — I am 
sinking  — hold  me  — 

Let  me  alone. 

[ They  leave  him ; he  sinks  down 
on  ground. 

Too  late  — thought  myself  wise  — 

A woman’s  dupe.  Antonius,  tell  the 
Senate 

I have  been  most  true  to  Rome  — 
would  have  been  true 

To  her  — if  — if 

\_Falls  as  if  dead. 

Gamma  (coming  and  leaning  over  him) 

So  falls  the  throne  of  an 
hour. 

Synorix  (half  rising).  Throne  ? is  it 
thou  ? the  Fates  are  throned, 
not  we  — 

Not  guilty  of  ourselves  — thy  doom 
and  mine  — 

Thou  — coming  my  way  too  — Camma 
— good-night.  \_Dies. 

Camma  (upheld  by  weeping  Priest- 
esses). Thy  way?  poor  worm, 
crawl  down  thine  own  black 
hole 

To  the  lowest  Hell.  Antonius,  is  he 
there  ? 

1 meant  thee  to  have  follow’d — better 
thus. 

Nay,  if  my  people  must  be  thralls  of 
Rome, 


He  is  gentle,  tho’  a Roman. 

[*S’m£s  back  into  the  arms  of  the 
Priestesses. 

Antonius.  Thou  art  one 

With  thine  own  people,  and  tho’  a 
Roman  I 

Forgive  thee,  Camma. 

Camma  (raising  herself).  “ Camma  ! ” 
why  there  again 

I am  most  sure  that  some  one  call’d. 

0 women, 

Yewill  have  Roman  masters.  Iamglad 

I shall  not  see  it.  Did  not  some  old 
Greek 

Say  death  was  the  chief  good  % He 
had  my  fate  for  it, 

Poison’d.  (Sinks  back  again.)  Have 

1 the  crown  on  ? I will  go 

To  meet  him,  crown’d  ! crown’d  victor 
of  my  will  — 

On  my  last  voyage  — hut  the  wind  has 
fail’d  — 

Growing  dark  too  — hut  light  enough 
to  row. 

Row  to  the  blessed  Isles  ! the  blessed 
Isles ! — 

Sinnatus ! 

Why  comes  he  not  to  meet  me  ? It  is 
the  crown 

Offends  him  — and  my  hands  are  too 
sleepy 

To  lift  it  off. 

[Phoebe  takes  the  crown  off. 

Who  touch’d  me  then  ? I thank  you. 

\_Pises,  with  outspread  arms. 

There  — league  on  league  of  ever- 
shining  shore 

Beneath  an  ever-rising  sun — I see  him — 

“ Camma,  Camma  ! ” Sinnatus,  Sin- 
natus ! £ Dies . 


THE  FALCON, 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAE. 

The  Count  Federigo  degli  Alberighi. 
Filippo,  Count’s  foster-brother. 

The  Lady  Gioyanna. 

Elisabetta,  the  Count’s  nurse. 


SCENE.  — An  Italian  Cottage. 
Castle  and  Mountains  seen 
through  Window. 

Elisabetta  discovered  seated  on  stool 
in  window  darning.  The  Count  with 
Falcon  on  his  hand  comes  down  through 
the  door  at  back.  A withered  wreath 
on  the  wall. 

Elisabetta.  So,  my  lord,  the  Lady 
Giovanna,  who  hath  been  away  so 
long,  came  back  last  night  with  her 
son  to  the  castle. 

Count.  Hear  that,  my  bird  ! Art 
thou  not  jealous  of  her  ? 

My  princess  of  the  cloud,  my  plumed 
purveyor, 

My  far-eyed  queen  of  the  winds  — 
thou  that  canst  soar 
Beyond  the  morning  lark,  and  how- 
soe’er 

Thy  quarry  wind  and  wheel,  swoop 
down  upon  him 

Eagle -like,  lightning-like  — strike, 
make  his  feathers 
Glance  in  mid  heaven. 

[ Crosses  to  chair. 

I would  thou  hadst  a mate ! 
Thy  breed  will  die  with  thee,  and  mine 
with  me  : 

I am  as  lone  and  loveless  as  thyself. 

[ Sits  in  chair. 


Giovanna  here  ! Ay,  ruffle  thyself  — 
be  jealous! 

Thou  should’st  be  jealous  of  her. 
Tho’  I bred  thee 

The  f ull-train’d  marvel  of  all  falconry. 

And  love  thee  and  thou  me,  yet  if 
Giovanna 

Be  here  again  — No,  no  ! Buss  me, 
my  bird ! 

The  stately  widow  has  no  heart  for 
me. 

Thou  art  the  last  friend  left  me  upon 
earth  — 

No,  no  again  to  that. 

[ Rises  and  turns. 

My  good  old  nurse, 

I had  forgotten  thou  wast  sitting  there. 
Elisabetta.  Ay,  and  forgotten  thy 
foster-brother  too. 

Count.  Bird-babble  for  my  falcon ! 
Let  it  pass. 

What  art  thou  doing  there  'i 

Elisabetta.  Darning,  your  lordship. 

We  cannot  flaunt  it  in  new  feathers 
now : 

Nay,  if  we  will  buy  diamond  necklaces 

To  please  our  lady,  we  must  darn,  my 
lord. 

This  old  thing  here  (points  to  necklace 
round  her  neck),  they  are  but 
blue  beads  — my  Piero, 

God  rest  his  honest  soul,  he  bought 
’em  for  me, 


THE  FALCON. 


735 


Ay,  but  he  knew  I meant  to  marry 
him. 

How  couldst  thou  do  it,  my  son  *? 
How  couldst  thou  do  it  ? 

Count.  She  saw  it  at  a dance,  upon 
a neck 

Less  lovely  than  her  own,  and  long’d 
for  it. 

Elisabetta.  She  told  thee  as  much  ? 

Count.  No,  no  — a friend  of  hers. 

Elisabetta.  Shame  on  her  that  she 
took  it  at  thy  hands, 

She  rich  enough  to  have  bought  it  for 
herself ! 

Count.  She  would  have  robb’d  me 
then  of  a great  pleasure. 

Elisabetta.  But  hath  she  yet  re- 
turn’d thy  love  ? 

Count.  Not  yet ! 

Elisabetta.  She  should  return  thy 
necklace  then. 

Count.  Ay,  if 

She  knew  the  giver ; but  I bound  the 
seller 

To  silence,  and  I left  it  privily 
At  Florence,  in  her  palace. 

Elisabetta.  And  sold  thine  own 

To  buy  it  for  her.  She  not  know  ? 
She  knows 

There’s  none  such  other 

Count.  Madman  anywhere. 

Speak  freely,  tho’  to  call  a madman 
mad 

Will  hardly  help  to  make  him  sane 
again. 

Enter  Filippo. 

Filippo.  Ah,  the  women,  the  wo- 
men ! Ah,  Monna  Giovanna,  you 
here  again  ! you  that  have  the  face  of 
an  angel  and  the  heart  of  a — that’s 
too  positive  ! You  that  have  a score 
of  lovers  and  have  not  a heart  for  any 
of  them  — that’s  positive-negative  : 
you  that  have  not  the  head  of  a toad, 
and  not  a heart  like  the  jewel  in  it  — 
that’s  too  negative ; you  that  have  a 
cheek  like  a peach  and  a heart  like 
the  stone  in  it  — that’s  positive  again 
— that’s  better ! 

Elisabetta.  Sli  — sh  — Filippo  ! 


Filippo  ( turns  half  round).  Here  has 
our  master  been  a-glorifying  and 
a-velveting  and  a-silking  himself,  and 
a-peacocking  and  a-spreading  to  catch 
her  eye  for  a dozen  year,  till  he  hasn’t 
an  eye  left  in  his  own  tail  to  flourish 
among  the  peahens,  and  all  along  o’ 
you,  Monna  Giovanna,  all  along  o’ 
you! 

Elisabetta.  Sh — sh — Filippo  ! Can’t 
you  hear  that  you  are  saying  behind 
his  back  what  you  see  you  are  saying 
afore  his  face  '? 

Count.  Let  him  — he  never  spares 
me  to  my  face  ! 

Filippo.  No,  my  lord,  I never  spare 
your  lordship  to  your  lordship’s  face, 
nor  behind  your  lordship’s  back,  nor 
to  right,  nor  to  left,  nor  to  round 
about  and  back  to  your  lordship’s 
face  again,  for  Fm  honest,  your  lord- 
ship. 

Count.  Come,  come,  Filippo,  what 
is  there  in  the  larder  ? 

[Elisabetta  crosses  to  fireplace  and 
puts  on  wood. 

Filippo.  Shelves  and  hooks,  shelves 
and  hooks,  and  when  I see  the  shelves 
I am  like  to  hang  myself  on  the 
hooks. 

Count.  No  bread  ? 

Filippo.  Half  a breakfast  for  a rat ! 

Count.  Milk  ? 

Filippo.  Three  laps  for  a cat ! 

Count.  Cheese  ? 

Filippo.  A supper  for  tvrelve  mites. 

Count.  Eggs  ? 

Filippo.  One,  but  addled. 

Count.  No  bird  ? 

Filippo.  Half  a tit  and  a hern’s  bill. 

Count.  Let  be  thy  jokes  and  thy 
jerks,  man!  Anything  or  nothing'? 

Filippo.  Well,  my  lord,  if  all-but- 
nothing  be  anything,  and  one  plate  of 
dried  prunes  be  all-but-nothing,  then 
there  is  anything  in  your  lordship’s 
larder  at  your  lordship’s  service,  if 
your  lordship  care  to  call  for  it. 

Count.  Good  mother,  happy  was 
the  prodigal  son, 

For  he  return’d  to  the  rich  father;  I 
But  add  my  poverty  to  thine.  And  all 


734 


THE  FALCON. 


Thro’  following  of  my  fancy.  Pray 
thee  make 

Thy  slender  meal  out  of  those  scraps 
and  shreds 

Filippo  spoke  of.  As  for  him  and  me, 
There  sprouts  a salad  in  the  garden 
still. 

{To  the  Falcon.)  Why  didst  thou 
miss  thy  quarry  yester-even  ? 
To-day,  my  beauty,  thou  must  dash 
us  down 

Our  dinner  from  the  skies.  Away, 
Filippo ! 

[Exit  followed  by  Filippo. 

Elisabetta.  I knew  it  would  come 
to  this.  She  has  beggared  him.  I 
always  knew  it  would  come  to  this ! 
( Goes  up  to  table  as  if  to  resume  darn- 
ing, and  looks  out  of  icindow.)  Why, 
as  I live,  there  is  Monna  Giovanna 
coming  down  the  hill  from  the  castle. 
Stops  and  stares  at  our  cottage.  Ay, 
ay ! stare  at  it : it’s  all  you  have  left 
us.  Shame  upon  you ! She  beauti- 
ful ! sleek  as  a miller’s  mouse ! Meal 
enough,  meat  enough,  well  fed ; but 
beautiful  — bah  ! Nay,  see,  why  she 
turns  down  the  path  through  our  little 
vineyard,  and  I sneezed  three  times 
this  morning.  Coming  to  visit  my 
lord,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  too ! 
Why,  bless  the  saints  ! I’ll  be  bound 
to  confess  her  love  to  him  at  last.  I 
forgive  her,  I forgive  her ! I knew 
it  would  come  to  this  — I always 
knew  it  must  come  to  this!  {Going 
up  to  door  during  latter  part  of 
speech  and  opens  it.)  Come  in,  Ma- 
donna, come  in.  {Retires  to  front  of 
table  and  curtseys  as  the  Lady  Gio- 
vanna enters,  then  moves  chair  towards 
the  hearth.)  Nay,  let  me  place  this 
chair  for  your  ladyship. 

[Lady  Giovanna  moves  slowly 
down  stage,  then  crosses  to  chair, 
looking  about  her,  bows  as  she 
sees  the  Madonna  over  fireplace, 
then  sits  in  chair. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Can  J speak  with 
the  Count  1 

Elisabetta.  Ay,  my  lady,  but  won’t 
you  speak  with  the  old  woman  first, 


and  tell  her  all  about  it  and  make  her 
happy  ? for  I’ve  been  on  my  knees 
every  day  for  these  half-dozen  years 
in  hope  that  the  saints  would  send  us 
this  blessed  morning ; and  he  always 
took  you  so  kindly,  he  always  took 
the  world  so  kindly.  When  he  was  a 
little  one,  and  I put  the  bitters  on  my 
breast  to  wean  him,  he  made  a wry 
mouth  at  it,  but  he  took  ft* so  kindly, 
and  your  ladyship  has  given  him  bit- 
ters enough  in  this  world,  and  he 
never  made  a wry  mouth  at  you,  he 
always  took  you  so  kindly  — which  is 
more  than  I did,  my  lady,  more  than 
I did  — and  he  so  handsome  — and 
bless  your  sweet  face,  you  look  as 
beautiful  this  morning  as  the  very 
Madonna  her  own  self  — and  better 
late  than  never  — but  come  when  they 
will  — then  or  now  — it’s  all  for  the 
best,  come  when  they  will  — they  are 
made  by  the  blessed  saints  — these 
marriages.  [ Raises  her  hands. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Marriages  1 I shall 
never  marry  again  ! 

Elisabetta  { rises  and  turns).  Shame 
on  her  then ! 

Lady  Giovanna.  Where  is  the 
Count  1 

Elisabetta.  Just  gone 

To  fly  his  falcon. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Call  him  back  and 
say 

I come  to  breakfast  with  him. 

Elisabetta.  Holy  mother! 

To  breakfast ! Oh  sweet  saints  ! one 
plate  of  prunes  ! 

Well,  Madam,  I will  give  your  mes- 
sage to  him.  [Exit. 

Lady  Giovanna.  His  falcon,  and  I 
come  to  ask  for  his  falcon, 

The  pleasure  of  his  eyes — boast  of 
his  hand  — 

Pride  of  his  heart  — the  solace  of  his 
hours  — 

His  one  companion  here  — nay,  I have 
heard 

That,  thro’  his  late  magnificence  of 
living 

And  this  last  costly  gift  to  mine  own 
self,  [ Shows  diamond  necklace. 


THE  FALCON. 


735 


He  hath  become  so  beggar’d,  that  his 
falcon 

Ev’n  wins  his  dinner  for  him  in  the 
field. 

That  must  be  talk,  not  truth,  but 
truth  or  talk, 

How  can  I ask  for  his  falcon  ? 

[ Rises  and  moves  as  she  speaks. 

O my  sick  boy  ! 

My  daily  fading  Florio,  it  is  thou 

Hath  set  me  this  hard  task,  for  when 
I say 

What  can  I do  — what  can  I get  for 
thee  i 

He  answers,  “ Get  the  Count  to  give 
me  his  falcon, 

And  that  will  make  me  well.”  Yet  if 
I ask, 

He  loves  me,  and  he  knows  I know  he 
loves  me  ! 

Will  he  not  pray  me  to  return  his 
love  — 

To  marry  him  % — (pause)  — I can 
never  marry  him. 

His  grandsire  struck  my  grandsire  in 
a brawl 

At  Florence,  and  my  grandsire  stabb’d 
him  there. 

The  feud  between  our  houses  is  the 
bar 

I cannot  cross ; I dare  not  brave  my 
brother, 

Break  with  my  kin.  My  brother 
hates  him,  scorns 

The  noblest-natured  man  alive, and  I — 

Who  have  that  reverence  for  him  that 
I scarce 

Dare  beg  him  to  receive  his  diamonds 
back  — 

How  can  I,  dare  I,  ask  him  for  his 
falcon  ? 

\Puts  diamonds  in  her  casket. 

Re-enter  Count  and  Filippo.  Count 
turns  to  Filippo. 

Count.  Do  what  I said ; I cannot 
do  it  myself. 

Filippo.  Why  then,  my  lord,  we  are 
pauper’d  out  and  out. 

Count.  Do  what  I said  ! 

[. Advances  and  hows  low. 


Welcome  to  this  poor  cottage,  my 
dear  lady. 

Lady  Giovanna.  And  welcome  turns 
a cottage  to  a palace. 

Count.  ’Tis  long  since  we  have  met ! 

Lady  Giovanna.  To  make  amends 

I come  this  day  to  break  my  fast  witli 
you. 

Count.  I am  much  honor’d  — yes  — 
[ Turns  to  Filippo. 

Do  what  I told  thee.  Must  I do  it 
myself  1 

Filippo.  I will,  I will.  (Sighs.) 
Poor  fellow  ! {Exit. 

Count.  Lady,  you  bring  your  light 
into  my  cottage 

Who  never  deign’d  to  shine  into  my 
palace. 

My  palace  wanting  you  was  but  a 
cottage ; 

My  cottage,  while  you  grace  it,  is  a 
palace. 

Lady  Giovanna.  In  cottage  or  in 
palace,  being  still 

Beyond  your  fortunes,  you  are  still 
the  king 

Of  courtesy  and  liberality. 

Count.  I trust  I still  maintain  my 
courtesy ; 

My  liberality  perforce  is  dead. 

Thro’  lack  of  means  of  giving. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Yet  I come 

To  ask  a gift. 

{Moves  toward  him  a little. 

Count.  It  will  be  hard,  I fear, 

To  find  one  shock  upon  the  field  when 
all 

The  harvest  has  been  carried. 

Lady  Giovanna.  But  my  boy  — 

(Aside.)  No,  no  ! not  yet  — I cannot ! 

Count.  Ay,  how  is  he. 

That  bright  inheritor  of  your  eyes  — 
your  boy  1 

Lady  Giovanna.  Alas,  my  Lord 
Federigo,  he  hath  fallen 

Into  a sickness,  and  it  troubles  me. 

Count.  Sick ! is  it  so  ? why,  when 
he  came  last  year 

To  see  me  hawking,  he  was  well 
enough : 

And  then  I taught  him  all  our  hawk- 
ing-phrases. 


736 


THE  FALCON. 


Lady  Giovanna.  Oh  yes,  and  once  | 
you  let  him  fly  your  falcon. 

Count.  How  charm’d  he  was  ! what 
wonder  ? — A gallant  boy, 

A noble  bird,  each  perfect  of  the 
breed. 

Lady  Giovanna  ( sinks  in  chair). 
What  do  you  rate  her  at  ? 

Count.  My  bird  1 a hundred 

Gold  pieces  once  were  offer’d  by  the 
Duke. 

I had  no  heart  to  part  with  her  for 
money. 

Lady  Giovanna.  No,  not  for  money. 

[Count  turns  away  and  sighs. 

Wherefore  do  you  sigh  1 

Count.  I have  lost  a friend  of 
late. 

Lady  Giovanna.  I could  sigh  with 
you 

For  fear  of  losing  more  than  friend, 
a son ; 

And  if  he  leave  me  — all  the  rest  of 
life  — 

That  wither’d  wreath  were  of  more 
worth  to  me. 

[. Looking  at  wreath  on  wall. 

Count.  That  wither’d  wreath  is  of 
more  worth  to  me 

Than  all  the  blossom,  all  the  leaf  of 
this 

New-wakening  year. 

\_Goes  and  takes  down  wreath. 

Lady  Giovanna.  And  yet  I never 

\ saw 

The  land  so  rich  in  blossom  as  this 
year. 

Count  ( holding  wreath  toward  her). 
Was  not  the  year  when  this 
was  gather’d  richer  ? 

T^ady  Giovanna.  How  long  ago  was 
that  ? 

Count.  Alas,  ten  summers  ! 

A lady  that  was  beautiful  as  day 

Sat  by  me  at  a rustic  festival 

With  other  beauties  on  a mountain 
meadow, 

And  she  was  the  most  beautiful  of 
all; 

Then  but  fifteen,  and  still  as  beautiful. 

The  mountain  flowers  grew  thickly 
round  about. 


I made  a wreath  with  some  of  these ; 
I ask’d 

A ribbon  from  her  hair  to  bind  it 
with  ; 

I whisper’d,  Let  me  crown  you  Queen 
of  Beauty, 

And  softly  placed  the  chaplet  on  her 
head. 

A color,  which  has  color’d  all  my  life, 

Flush’d  in  her  face  ; then  I was  call’d 
away ; 

And  presently  all  rose,  and  so  de- 
parted. 

Ah  ! she  had  thrown  my  chaplet  on 
the  grass, 

And  there  I found  it. 

[Lets  his  hands  fall,  holding  wreath 
despondingly. 

T^,ady  Giovanna  ( after  pause).  How 
long  since  do  you  say  ? 

Count.  That  was  the  very  year  be- 
fore you  married. 

Lady  Giovanna.  When  I was  mar- 
ried you  were  at  the  wars. 

Count.  Had  she  not  thrown  my 
chaplet  on  the  grass, 

It  may  be  I had  never  seen  the  wars. 

[Replaces  wreath  whence  he  had 
taken  it. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Ah,  but,  my  lord, 
there  ran  a rumor  then 

That  you  were  kill’d  in  battle.  I can 
tell  you 

True  tears  that  year  were  shed  for 
you  in  Florence. 

Count.  It  might  have  been  as  well 
for  me.  Unhappily 

I was  but  wounded  by  the  enemy 
there 

And  then  imprison’d. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Happily,  however, 

I see  you  quite  recover’d  of  your 
wound. 

Count.  No,  no,  not  quite,  Madonna, 
not  yet,  not  yet 

Re-enter  Filippo. 

Filippo.  My  lord,  a word  with  you. 

Count.  Fray,  pardon  me  ! 

[Lady  Giovanna  crosses,  and  passes 
behind  chair  and  takes  down 


THE  FALCON. 


737 


wreath ; then  goes  to  chair  by 
table. 

Count  (to  Filippo).  What  is  it, 
Filippo  ? 

Filippo.  Spoons,  your  lordship. 

Count.  Spoons ! 

Filippo.  Yes,  my  lord,  for  wasn’t 
my  lady  born  with  a golden  spoon  in 
her  ladyship’s  mouth,  and  we  haven’t 
never  so  much  as  a silver  one  for  the 
golden  lips  of  her  ladyship. 

Count.  Have  we  not  half  a score 
of  silver  spoons  ? 

Filippo.  Half  o’  one,  my  lord  ! 

Count.  How  half  of  one  ? 

Filippo.  I trod  upon  him  even  now, 
my  lord,  in  my  hurry,  and  broke  him. 

Count.  And  the  other  nine  1 

Filippo.  Sold ! but  shall  I not  mount 
with  your  lordship’s  leave  to  her  lady- 
ship’s castle,  in  your  lordship’s  and 
her  ladyship’s  name,  and  confer  with 
her  ladyship’s  seneschal,  and  so  des- 
cend again  with  some  of  her  ladyship’s 
own  appurtenances  ? 

Count.  Why  — no,  man.  Only  see 
your  cloth  be  clean. 

[Exit  Filippo. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Ay,  ay,  this  faded 
ribbon  was  the  mode 
In  Florence  ten  years  back.  What’s 
here  ? a scroll 
Pinn’d  to  the  wreath. 

My  lord,  you  have  said  so  much 
Of  this  poor  wreath  that  I was  bold 
enough 

To  take  it  down,  if  but  to  guess  what 
flowers 

Had  made  it ; and  I find  a written 
scroll 

That  seems  to  run  in  rhymings. 
Might  I read  ? 

Count.  Ay,  if  you  will. 

Lady  Giovanna.  It  should  be  if  you 
can. 

(Reads.)  “Dead  mountain.”  Nay, 
for  who  could  trace  a hand 
So  wild  and  staggering  ? 

Count.  This  was  penn’d,  Madonna, 
Close  to  the  grating  on  a winter 
morn 

In  the  perpetual  twilight  of  a prison, 


When  he  that  made  it,  having  his 
right  hand 

Lamed  in  the  battle,  wrote  it  with  his 
left. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Oh  heavens ! the 
very  letters  seem  to  shake 

With  cold,  with  pain  perhaps,  poor 
prisoner!  Well, 

Tell  me  the  words  — or  better  — for 
I see 

There  goes  a musical  score  along  witli 
them, 

Repeat  them  to  their  music. 

Count.  You  can  touch 

No  chord  in  me  that  would  not  answer 
you 

In  music. 

Lady  Giovanna.  That  is  musically 
said. 

[Count  takes  guitar.  Lady  Gio- 
vanna sits  listening  with  wreath 
in  her  hand , and  quietly  removes 
scroll  and  places  it  on  table  at  the 
end  of  song. 

Count  (sings,  playing  guitar ).  “ Dead 
mountain  flowers,  dead  moun- 

' tain-meadow  flowers, 

Dearer  than  when  you  made  your 
mountain  gay, 

Sweeter  than  any  violet  of  to-day, 

Richer  than  all  the  wide  world-wealth 
of  May, 

To  me,  tho’  all  your  bloom  has  died 
away, 

You  bloom  again,  dead  mountain- 
meadow  flowers.” 

Enter  Elisabetta  with  cloth. 

Elisabetta.  A word  with  you,  my 
lord ! 

Count  (singing).  “ O mountain 
flowers ! ” 

Elisabetta.  A word,  my  lord ! 
(Louder.) 

Count  (sings).  “ Dead  flowers  ! ” 

Elisabetta.  A word,  my  lord ! 
(Louder.) 

Count.  I pray  you  pardon  me  again  ! 

[Lady  Giovanna,  looking  at  wreath. 

Count  (to  Elisabetta).  What  is  it  ? 

Elisabetta.  My  lord,  we  have  but 


738 


THE  FALCON. 


one  piece  of  earthenware  to  serve  the 
salad  in  to  my  lady,  and  that  cracked ! 

Count.  Why  then,  that  flower’d 
bowl  my  ancestor 

Fetch’d  from  the  farthest  east  — we 
never  use  it 

For  fear  of  breakage  — but  this  day 
has  brought 

A great  occasion.  You  can  take  it, 
nurse ! 

Elisabetta.  I did  take  it,  my  lord, 
but  what  with  my  lady’s  coming  that 
had  so  flurried  me,  and  what  with  the 
fear  of  breaking  it,  I did  break  it,  my 
lord  : it  is  broken ! 

Count.  My  one  thing  left  of  value 
in  the  world ! 

No  matter!  see  your  cloth  be  white 
as  snow ! 

Elisabetta  ( pointing  thro ’ window). 
White  ? I warrant  thee,  my  son,  as 
the  snow  yonder  on  the  very  tip-top 
o’  the  mountain. 

Count.  And  yet  to  speak  white 
truth,  my  good  old  mother, 

I have  seen  it  like  the  snow  on  the 
moraine. 

Elisabetta.  How  can  your  lordship 
say  so  ? There,  my  lord  ! 

[Lays  cloth. 

O my  dear  son,  be  not  unkind  to  me. 
And  one  word  more. 

[ Going  — returns. 

Count  ( touching  guitar).  Good  ! let  it 
be  but  one. 

Elisabetta.  Hath  she  return’d  thy 
love  1 

Count.  Not  yet ! 

Elisabetta.  And  will  she  ? 

Count  ( looking  at  Lady  Giovanna). 
I scarce  believe  it ! 

Elisabetta.  Shame  upon  her  then  ! 

[Exit. 

Count  (sings.)  “ Dead  mountain 
flowers  ” — 

Ah  well,  my  nurse  has  broken 
The  thread  of  my  dead  flowers,  as  she 
has  broken 

My  china  bowl.  My  memory  is  as 
dead.  [Goes  and  replaces  guitar. 
Strange  that  the  words  at  home  with 
me  so  long 


Should  fly  like  bosom  friends  when 
needed  most. 

So  by  your  leave  if  you  would  hear 
the  rest, 

The  writing. 

Lady  Giovanna  ( holding  wreath 
toward  him).  There!  my  lord, 
you  are  a poet, 

And  can  you  not  imagine  that  the 
wreath, 

Set,  as  you  say,  so  lightly  on  her  head, 
Fell  with  her  motion  as  she  rose,  and 
she, 

A girl,  a child,  then  but  fifteen,  how- 
ever 

Flutter’d  or  flatter’d  by  your  notice  of 
her, 

Was  yet  too  bashful  to  return  for  it  ? 

Count.  Was  it  so  indeed  ? was  it  so  1 
was  it  so  ? 

[Leans  forward  to  take  wreath,  and 
touches  Lady  Giovanna’s  hand, 
which  she  withdraws  hastily ; he 
places  wreath  on  corner  of  chair. 

Lady  Giovanna  ( with  dignity).  I did 
not  say,  my  lord,  that  it  was  so  ; 
I said  you  might  imagine  it  was  so. 

Enter  Filippo  with  bowl  of  salad,  which 
he  places  on  table. 

Filippo.  Here’s  a fine  salad  for  my 
lady,  for  tho’  we  have  been  a soldier, 
and  ridden  by  his  lordship’s  side,  and 
seen  the  red  of  the  battle-field,  yet  are 
we  now  drill-sergeant  to  his  lordship’s 
lettuces,  and  profess  to  be  great  in 
green  things  and  in  garden-stuff. 

Lady  Giovanna.  I thank  you,  good 
Filippo.  [Exit  Filippo. 

Enter  Elisabetta  with  bird  on  a dish 
which  she  places  on  table. 

Elisabetta  (close  to  table).  Here’s  a 
fine  fowl  for  my  lady ; I had  scant 
time  to  do  him  in.  I hope  he  be  not 
underdone,  for  we  be  undone  in  the 
doing  of  him. 

Lady  Giovanna.  I thank  you,  my 
good  nurse. 

Filippo  (re-entering  with  plate  of 
prunes).  And  here  are  fine  fruits  for 


THE  FALCON. 


739 


my  lady  — prunes,  my  lady,  from  the 
tree  that  my  lord  himself  planted  here 
in  the  blossom  of  his  boyhood  — and 
so  I,  Filippo,  being,  with  your  lady- 
ship’s pardon,  and  as  your  ladyship 
knows,  his  lordship’s  own  foster- 
brother,  would  commend  them  to 
your  ladyship’s  most  peculiar  ap- 
preciation. [ Puts  plate  on  table. 

Elisabetta.  Filippo  ! 

Lady  Giovanna  (Count  leads  her  to 
table).  Will  you  not  eat  with 
me,  my  lord  ? 

Count.  I cannot, 

Not  a morsel,  not  one  morsel.  I have 
broken 

My  fast  already.  I will  pledge  you. 

Wine  ! 

Filippo,  wine ! 

[Sits  near  table;  Filippo  brings 
flask,  Jills  the  Count’s  goblet , 
then  Lady  Giovanna’s ; Elisa- 
betta stands  at  the  back  of  Lady 
Giovanna's  chair. 

Count.  It  is  but  thin  and  cold, 

Not  like  the  vintage  blowing  round 
your  castle. 

We  lie  too  deep  down  in  the  shadow 
here. 

Your  ladyship  lives  higher  in  the  sun. 

[ They  pledge  each  other  and  drink. 

Lady  Giovanna.  If  I might  send 
you  down  a flask  or  two 
Of  that  same  vintage  ? There  is  iron 
in  it. 

It  has  been  much  commended  as  a 
medicine. 

I give  it  my  sick  son,  and  if  you 
be 

Not  quite  recover’d  of  your  wound,  the 
wine 

Might  help  you.  None  has  ever  told 
me  yet 

The  story  of  your  battle  and  your 
wound. 

Filippo  [coming  forward).  I can  tell 
you,  my  lady,  I can  tell  you. 

Elisabetta.  Filippo ! will  you  take 
the  word  out  of  your  master’s  own 
mouth  1 

Filippo.  W as  it  there  to  take  1 Put 
it  there,  my  lord. 


Count.  Giovanna,  my  dear  lady,  in 
this  same  battle 

We  had  been  beaten  — they  were  ten 
to  one. 

The  trumpets  of  the  fight  had  echo’d 
down, 

I and  Filippo  here  had  done  our  best, 

And,  having  passed  unwounded  from 
the  field, 

Were  seated  sadly  at  a fountain  side, 

Our  horses  grazing  by  us,  when  a 
troop, 

Laden  with  booty  and  with  a flag  of 
ours 

Ta’en  in  the  fight 

Filippo.  Ay,  but  we  fought  for  it 
back, 

And  kill’d 

Elisabetta.  Filippo  ! 

Count.  A troop  of  horse 

Filippo.  Five  hundred  ! 

Count.  Say  fifty  ! 

Filippo.  And  we  kill’d  ’em  by  the 
score  ! 

Elisabetta.  Filippo  ! 

Filippo.  Well,  well,  well!  I bite  my 
tongue. 

Count.  We  may  have  left  their  fifty 
less  by  five. 

However,  staying  not  to  count  how 
many, 

But  anger’d  at  their  flaunting  of  our 
flag, 

We  mounted,  and  we  dashed  into  the 
heart  of  ’em. 

I wore  the  lady’s  chaplet  round  my 
neck; 

It  served  me  for  a blessed  rosary. 

I am  sure  that  more  than  one  brave 
fellow  owed 

His  death  to  the  charm  in  it. 

Elisabetta.  Hear  that,  my  lady  ! 

Count.  I cannot  tell  how  long  we 
strove  before 

Our  horses  fell  beneath  us  ; down  we 
went 

Crush’d,  hack’d  at,  trampled  under- 
foot. The  night, 

As  some  cold-manner’d  friend  may 
strangely  do  us 

The  truest  service,  had  a touch  of 
frost 


740 


THE  FALCON. 


That  help’d  to  check  the  flowing  of 
the  blood. 

My  last  sight  ere  I swoon’d  was  one 
sweet  face 

Crown’d  with  the  wreath.  That  seem’d 
to  come  and  go. 

They  left  us  there  for  dead  l 

Elisahetta.  Hear  that,  my  lady  ! 

Filippo.  Ay,  and  I left  two  fingers 
there  for  dead.  See,  my  lady  ! 

[. Showing  his  hand. 

Lady  Giovanna.  I see,  Filippo  ! 

Filippo.  And  I have  small  hope  of 
the  gentleman  gout  in  my  great  toe. 

Lady  Giovanna.  And  why,  Filippo  1 
[. Smiling  absently. 

Filippo.  I left  him  there  for  dead 
too! 

Elisabetta.  She  smiles  at  him  — how 
hard  the  woman  is  ! 

My  lady,  if  your  ladyship  were  not 
Too  proud  to  look  upon  the  garland, 
you 

Would  find  it  stain’d  — 

Count  (rising).  Silence,  Elisabetta  ! 

Elisabetta.  Stain’d  with  the  blood  of 
the  best  heart  that  ever 
Beat  for  one  woman. 

\_Points  to  wreath  on  chair. 

Lady  Giovanna  (rising slowly).  I can 
eat  no  more  ! 

Count.  You  have  but  trifled  with 
our  homely  salad, 

But  dallied  with  a single  lettuce-leaf ; 
Not  eaten  anything. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Nay,  nay,  I cannot. 
You  know,  my  lord,  I told  you  I was 
troubled. 

My  one  child  Florio  lying  still  so 
sick, 

I bound  myself,  and  by  a solemn 
vow, 

That  I would  touch  no  flesh  till  he 
were  well 

Here,  or  else  well  in  Heaven,  where  all 
is  well. 

[Elisabetta  clears  table  of  bird  and 
salad:  Filippo  snatches  up  the 
plate  of  prunes  and  holds  them  to 
Lady  Giovanna. 

Filippo.  But  the  prunes,  my  lady, 
from  the  tree  that  his  lordship 


Lady  Giovanna.  Not  now,  Fiiippo. 
My  lord  Federigo, 

Can  I not  speak  with  you  once  more 
alone  'l 

Count.  You  hear,  Filippo  ? My 
good  fellow,  go  ! 

Filippo.  But  the  prunes  that  your 
lordship  

Elisabetta.  Filippo  ! 

Count.  Ay,  prune  our  company  (£ 
thine  own  and  go  ! 

Elisabetta.  Filippo  ! 

Filippo  (turning).  Well,  well  ! the 
women ! [Exit. 

Count.  And  thou  too  leave  us,  my 
dear  nurse,  alone. 

Elisabetta  (folding  up  cloth  and  going). 
And  me  too  ! Ay,  the  dear  nurse  will 
leave  you  alone ; but,  for  all  that,  she 
that  has  eaten  the  yolk  is  scarce  like 
to  sw'allow  the  shell. 

[ Turns  and  curtseys  stiffly  to  Lady 
Giovanna,  then  exit.  Lady 
Giovanna  takes  out  diamond 
necklace  from  casket. 

Lady  Giovanna.  I have  anger’d  your 
good  nurse;  these  old-world  ser- 
vants 

Are  all  but  flesh  and  blood  with  those 
they  serve. 

My  lord,  I have  a present  to  return 
you, 

And  afterwards  a boon  to  crave  of 
you. 

Count.  No,  my  most  honor’d  and 
long-worshipt  lady, 

Poor  Federigo  degli  Alberighi 
Takes  nothing  in  return  from  you 
except 

Return  of  his  affection  — can  deny 
Nothing  to  you  that  you  require  of 
him. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Then  I require  you 
to  take  back  your  diamonds  — 
[ Offering  necklace. 
I doubt  not  they  are  yours.  No  other 
heart 

Of  such  magnificence  in  courtesy 
Beats  — out  of  heaven.  They  seem’d 
too  rich  a prize 

To  trust  with  any  messenger.  I came 


THE  FALCON. 


741 


In  person  to  return  them. 

[ Count  draws  bach. 

If  the  phrase 

“ Return  ” displease  you,  we  will  say 
— exchange  them 

For  your  — for  your 

Count  ( takes  a step  toward  her  and  then 
back)  For  mine  — and  what  of 
mine  'l 

Lady  Giovanna.  Well,  shall  we  say 
this  wreath  and  your  sweet 
rhymes 

Count.  But  have  you  ever  worn  my 
diamonds  ? 

Lady  Giovanna.  No ! 

For  that  would  seem  accepting  of  your 
love. 

I cannot  brave  my  brother  — but  be 
sure 

That  I shall  never  marry  again,  my 
lord! 

Count.  Sure  ? 

Lady  Giovanna.  Yes! 

Count.  Is  this  your  brother’s  order  ? 

Lady  Giovanna.  No ! 

For  he  would  marry  me  to  the  richest 
man 

In  Florence ; but  I think  you  know 
the  saying  — 

“ Better  a man  without  riches,  than 
riches  without  a man.” 

Count.  A noble  saying  — and  acted 
on  would  yield 

A nobler  breed  of  men  and  women. 
Lady, 

I find  you  a shrewd  bargainer.  The 
wreath 

That  once  you  wore  outvalues  twenty- 
fold 

The  diamonds  that  you  never  deign’d 
to  wear. 

But  lay  them  there  for  a moment ! 

[ Points  to  table.  Lady  Giovanna 
places  necklace  on  table. 

And  be  you 

Gracious  enough  to  let  me  know  the 
boon 

By  granting  which,  if  aught  be  mine 
to  grant, 

I should  be  made  more  happy  than  I 
hoped 

Ever  to  be  again. 


Ladu  Giovanna.  Then  keep  your 
wreath, 

But  you  will  find  me  a shrewd  bar- 
gainer still. 

I cannot  keep  your  diamonds,  for  the 
gift 

I ask  for,  to  my  mind  and  at  this 
present 

Outvalues  all  the  jewels  upon  earth. 

Count.  It  should  be  love  that  thus 
outvalues  all. 

You  speak  like  love,  and  yet  you  love 
me  not. 

I have  nothing  in  this  world  but  love 
for  you. 

Lady  Giovanna.  Love  1 it  is  love, 
love  for  my  dying  boy, 

Moves  me  to  ask  it  of  you. 

Count.  What  1 my  time  ? 

Is  it  my  time  ? Well,  I can  give  my 
time 

To  him  that  is  a part  of  you,  your  son. 

Shall  I return  to  the  castle  with  you  'i 
Shall  I 

Sit  by  him,  read  to  him,  tell  him  my 
tales. 

Sing  him  my  songs  1 You  know  that 
I can  touch 

The  ghittern  to  some  purpose. 

Lady  Giovanna.  No,  not  that ! 

I thank  you  heartily  for  that — andyou, 

I doubt  not  from  your  nobleness  of 
nature, 

Will  pardon  me  for  asking  what  I ask. 

Count.  Giovanna,  dear  Giovanna,  I 
that  once 

The  wildest  of  the  random  youth  of 
Florence 

Before  I saw  you  — all  my  nobleness 

Of  nature,  as  you  deign  to  call  it, 
draws 

From  you,  and  from  my  constancy  to 
you. 

No  more,  but  speak. 

Lady  Giovanna.  I will.  You  know 
sick  people, 

More  specially  sick  children,  have 
strange  fancies, 

Strange  longings ; and  to  thwart  them 
in  their  mood 

May  work  them  grievous  harm  at 
times,  may  even 


742 


THE  FALCON, i 


Hasten  their  end.  I would  you  had  a 
son ! 

It  might  be  easier  then  for  you  to 
make 

Allowance  for  a mother  — her  — who 
comes 

To  rob  you  of  your  one  delight  on 
earth. 

How  often  has  my  sick  boy  yearn’d 
for  this ! 

I have  put  him  off  as  often ; but  to- 
day 

I dared  not  — so  much  weaker,  so 
much  worse 

For  last  day’s  journey.  I was  weep- 
ing for  him  ; 

He  gave  me  his  hand : “ I should  be 
well  again 

If  thegood  Countwould  give  me ” 

Count.  Give  me. 

Lady  Giovanna.  His  falcon. 

Count  (starts  back).  My  falcon  ! 

Lady  Giovanna.  Yes,  your  falcon, 
Federigo ! 

Count.  Alas,  I cannot ! 

Lady  Giovanna.  Cannot?  Even  so! 

I fear’d  as  much.  O this  unhappy 
world  ! 

How  shall  I break  it  to  him  ? how 
shall  I tell  him  ? 

The  boy  may  die  : more  blessed  were 
the  rags 

Of  some  pale  beggar-woman  seeking 
alms 

For  her  sick  son,  if  he  were  like  to 
live, 

Than  all  my  childless  wealth,  if  mine 
must  die. 

I was  to  blame  — the  love  you  said 
you  bore  me  — 

My  lord,  we  thank  you  for  your 
entertainment, 

[ With  a stately  curtsey. 

And  so  return  — Heaven  help  him  ! — 
to  our  son.  [Turns. 

Count  {rushes  forward).  Stay,  stay, 
I am  most  unlucky,  most  un- 
happy. 

You  never  had  look’d  in  on  me  be- 
fore, 

And  when  you  came  and  dipt  your 
sovereign  head 


Thro’  these  low  doors,  you  ask’d  to 
eat  with  me. 

I had  but  emptiness  to  set  before 
you, 

No  not  a draught  of  milk,  no  not  at, 

. egg> 

Nothing  but  my  brave  bird,  my  noble 
falcon, 

My  comrade  of  the  house,  and  of  the 
field. 

She  had  to  die  for  it  — she  died  foi 
you. 

Perhaps  I thought  with  those  of  old: 
the  nobler 

The  victim  was,  the  more  acceptable 

Might  be  the  sacrifice.  I fear  you 
scarce 

Will  thank  me  for  your  entertain- 
ment now. 

Lady  Giovanna  (returning).  I bear 
with  him  no  longer. 

Count.  No,  Madonna  ! 

And  he  will  have  to  bear  with  it  as  he 
may. 

Lady  Giovanna.  I break  with  him 
for  ever! 

Count.  Yes,  Giovanna, 

But  he  will  keep  his  love  to  you  for 
ever ! 

Lady  Giovanna.  You  ? you  ? not 
you ! My  brother ! my  hard 
brother ! 

0 Federigo,  Federigo,  I love  you! 

Spite  of  ten  thousand  brothers,  Fed- 
erigo. [ Falls  at  his  feet. 

Count  (impetuously) . Why  then  the 
dying  of  my  noble  bird 

Hath  served  me  better  than  her  living 
— then 

[Takes  diamonds  from  table. 

These  diamonds  are  both  yours  and 
mine  — have  won 

Their  value  again  — beyond  all  mar- 
kets — there 

1 lay  them  for  the  first  time  round 

your  neck. 

[Lays  necklace  round  her  neck. 

And  then  this  chaplet  — No  more 
feuds,  but  peace, 

Peace  and  conciliation ! I will  make 

Your  brother  love  me.  See,  I tea/ 
away 


THE  FALCON. 


743 


The  leaves  were  darken’d  by  the  bat- 
tle — 

[Pulls  leaves  off  and  throws  them 
down. 

— crown  you 

Again  with  the  same  crown  my  Queen 
of  Beauty. 

[ Places  wreath  on  tier  head. 

Rise  — I could  almost  think  that  the 
dead  garland 

Will  break  once  more  into  living  blos- 
som. 


Nay,  nay,  I pray  you  rise. 

[. Raises  her  with  both  hands. 

We  two  together 

Will  help  to  heal  your  son  — your 
son  and  mine  — 

We  shall  do  it  — we  shall  do  it. 

[. Embraces  her. 

The  purpose  of  my  being  is  accom- 
plish’d, 

And  I am  happy ! 

Lady  Gicvi  nna.  And  I too,  Ted- 
erigo. 


BECKET 


To  the  Lord  Chancellor, 

THE  RIGHT  HONORABLE  EARL  OF  SELBORNE. 


My  Dear  Selborne, — To  you,  the  honored  Chancellor  of  our  own  day,  I dedicate  tbi* 
dramatic  memorial  of  your  great  predecessor;  — which,  altho’ not  intended  in  its  present 
form  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  our  modern  theatre,  has  nevertheless  — for  so  you  have 
assured  me  — won  your  approbation.  Ever  yours, 

TENNYSON. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

Henry  II.  ( son  of  the  Earl  of  Anjou). 

Thomas  Becket,  Chancellor  of  England , afterwards  Archbishop  oj  Canterbury. 
Gilbert  Foliot,  Bishop  of  London. 

Roger,  Archbishop  of  York. 

Bishop  of  Hereford. 

Hilary,  Bishop  of  Chichester. 

Jocelyn,  Bishop  of  Salisbury. 

John  or  Salisbury  ) friends  of  Becket 
Herbert  of  Bosham  ) Jrienas  oj  uectcet. 

Walter  Map,  reputed  author  of“  Golias,”  Latin  poems  against  the  priesthood. 
King  Louis  of  France. 

Geoffrey,  son  of  Rosamund  and  Henry. 

Grim,  a monk  of  Cambridge. 

Sir  Reginald  Fitzurse  ] 

Sir  Richard  de  Brito  ! the  four  knights  of  the  King’s  household,  enemies  of 
Sir  William  de  Tracy  j Becket. 

Sir  Hugh  de  Morville  J 
De  Broc  of  Saltwood  Castle. 

Lord  Leicester. 

Philip  de  Eleemosyna. 

Two  Knight  Templars. 

John  of  Oxford  ( called  the  Swearer ). 

Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Queen  of  England  ( divorced  from  Louis  of  France ). 
Rosamund  de  Clifford. 

Margery. 


Knights,  Monks,  Beggars,  etc. 


BECKET. 


745 


PROLOGUE. 

A Castle  in  Normandy.  Interior 

of  the  Hall.  Roofs  of  a City 

seen  thro’  Windows. 

Henry  and  Becket  at  chess. 

Henry.  So  then  our  good  Arch- 
bishop Theobald 

Lies  dying. 

Becket.  I am  grieved  to  know  as 
much. 

Henry.  But  we  must  have  a 
mightier  man  than  he 

For  his  successor. 

Becket . Have  you  thought  of  one  ? 

Henry.  A cleric  lately  poison’d  his 
own  mother, 

And  being  brought  before  the  courts 
of  the  Church, 

They  but  degraded  him.  I hope  they 
whipt  him. 

I would  have  hang’d  him. 

Becket.  It  is  your  move. 

Henry.  Well  — there.  \_Moves. 

The  Church  in  the  pell-mell  of 
Stephen’s  time 

Hath  climb’d  the  throne  and  almost 
clutch’d  the  crown ; 

But  by  the  royal  customs  of  our  realm 

The  Church  should  hold  her  baronies 
of  me, 

Like  other  lords  amenable  to  law. 

I’ll  have  them  written  down  and  made 
the  law. 

Becket.  My  liege,  I move  my  bishop. 

Henry.  And  if  I live, 

No  man  without  my  leave  shall  ex- 
communicate 

My  tenants  or  my  household. 

Becket.  Look  to  your  king. 

Henry.  No  man  without  my  leave 
shall  cross  the  seas 

To  set  the  Pope  against  me  — I pray 
your  pardon. 

Becket.  Well  — will  you  move  1 

Henry.  There.  {Moves. 

Becket.  Check  — you 

move  so  wildly. 

Henry.  There  then  ! {Moves. 


Becket.  Why  — there  then,  for  you 
see  my  bishop 

Hath  brought  your  king  to  a stand- 
still. You  are  beaten. 

Henry  ( kicks  over  the  board).  Why, 
there  then  — down  go  bishop 
and  king  together. 

I loathe  being  beaten  ; had  I fixt  my 
fancy 

Upon  the  game  I should  have  beaten 
thee, 

But  that  was  vagabond. 

Becket.  Where,  my  liege  ? 

With  Phryne, 

Or  Lais,  or  thy  Rosamund,  or  another  ? 

Henry.  My  Rosamund  is  no  Lais, 
Thomas  Becket ; 

And  yet  she  plagues  me  too  — no 
fault  in  her  — 

But  that  I fear  the  Queen  would  have 
her  life. 

Becket.  Put  her  away,  put  her  away, 
my  liege ! 

Put  her  away  into  a nunnery  ! 

Safe  enough  there  from  her  to  whom 
thou  art  bound 

By  Holy  Church.  And  wherefore 
should  she  seek 

The  life  of  Rosamund  de  Clifford  more 

Than  that  of  other  paramours  of 
thine  ? 

Henry.  How  dost  thou  know  I am 
not  wedded  to  her  ? 

Becket.  How  should  I know  ? 

Henry.  That  is  my  secret,  Thomas. 

Becket.  State  secrets  should  be  pa- 
tent to  the  statesman 

Who  serves  and  loves  his  king,  and 
whom  the  king 

Loves  not  as  statesman,  but  true  lover 
and  friend. 

Henry.  Come,  come,  thou  art  but 
deacon,  not  yet  bishop, 

No,  nor  archbishop,  nor  my  confessor 
yet. 

I would  to  God  thou  wert,  for  I should 
find 

An  easy  father  confessor  in  thee. 

Becket.  St.  Denis,  that  thou  shouldst 
not.  I should  beat 

Thy  kingship  as  my  bishop  hath 
beaten  it. 


746 


BECKET. 


Henry.  Hell  take  thy  bishop  then, 
and  my  kingship  too  ! 

Come,  come,  I love  thee  and  I know 
thee,  I know  thee, 

A doter  on  white  pheasant-flesh  at 
feasts, 

A sauce-deviser  for  thy  days  of  fish, 
A dish-designer,  and  most  amorous 
Of  good  old  red  sound  liberal  Gascon 
wine : 

Will  not  thy  body  rebel,  man,  if  thou 
flatter  it  1 

Becket.  That  palate  is  insane  which 
cannot  tell 

A good  dish  from  a bad,  new  wine 
from  old. 

Henry.  Well,  who  loves  wine  loves 
woman. 

Becket.  So  I do. 

Men  are  God’s  trees,  and  women  are 
God’s  flowers ; 

And  when  the  Gascon  wine  mounts  to 
my  head, 

The  trees  are  all  the  statelier,  and  the 
flowers 

Are  all  the  fairer. 

Henry.  And  thy  thoughts, 

thy  fancies  q. 

Becket.  Good  dogs,  my  liege,  well 
train’d,  and  easily  call’d 
Off  from  the  game. 

Henry.  Save  for  some  once  or  twice, 
When  they  ran  down  the  game  and 
worried  it. 

Becket.  No,  my  liege,  no! — not 
once  — in  God’s  name,  no  ! 

Henry.  Nay,  then,  I take  thee  at 
thy  word  — believe  thee 
The  veriest  Galahad  of  old  Arthur’s 
hall. 

And  so  this  Rosamund,  my  true  heart- 
wife, 

Not  Eleanor — she  whom  I love  indeed 
As  a woman  should  be  loved  — Why 
dost  thou  smile 
So  dolorously  1 

Becket.  My  good  liege,  if  a man 
Wastes  himself  among  women,  how 
should  he  love 

A woman,  as  a woman  should  be  loved  ? 

Henry.  How  shouldst  thou  know 
that  never  hast  loved  one  ? 


Come,  I would  give  her  to  thy  care  in 
England 

When  I am  out  in  Normandy  or  Anjou. 

Becket.  My  lord,  I am  your  subject, 
not  your 

Henry.  Pander. 

God’s  eyes  ! I know  all  that  — not  my 
purveyor 

Of  pleasures,  but  to  save  a life  — her 
life ; 

Ay,  and  the  soul  of  Eleanor  from  hell- 
fire. 

I have  built  a secret  bower  in  Eng- 
land, Thomas, 

A nest  in  a bush. 

Becket.  And  where,  my  liege  ? 

Henry  [whispers).  Thine  ear. 

Becket.  That’s  lone  enough. 

Henry  [laying  paper  on  table).  This 
chart  here  mark’d  “ Her  Bower” 

Take,  keep  it,  friend.  See,  first,  a 
circling  wood, 

A hundred  pathways  running  every- 
way, 

And  then  a brook,  a bridge  ; and  after 
that 

This  labyrinthine  brickwork  maze  in 
maze, 

And  then  another  wood,  and  in  the 
midst 

A garden  and  my  Rosamund.  Look, 
this  line  — 

The  rest  you  see  is  color’d  green  — 
but  this 

Draws  thro’  the  chart  to  her. 

Becket.  This  blood-red  line  1 

Henry.  Ay ! blood,  perchance,  ex- 
cept thou  see  to  her. 

Becket.  And  where  is  she  1 There 
in  her  English  nest  'l 

Henry.  Would  God  she  were  — no, 
here  within  the  city. 

We  take  her  from  her  secret  bower  in 
Anjou 

And  pass  her  to  her  secret  bower  in 
England. 

She  is  ignorant  of  all  but  that  I love 
her. 

Becket.  My  liege,  I pray  thee  let  me 
hence : a widow 

And  orphan  child,  whom  one  of  thy 
wild  barons 


BECKET. 


747 


Henry.  Ay,  ay,  but  swear  to  see  her 
in  England. 

Beclcet.  W ell,  well,  I swear,  but  not 
to  please  myself. 

Henry.  Whatever  come  between  us  1 

Bechet.  What  should  come 

Between  us,  Henry  1 

Henry.  Nay  — I know  not,  Thomas. 

Bechet.  What  need  then  1 Well  — 
whatever  come  between  us. 

[ Going. 

Henry.  A moment ! thou  didst  help 
me  to  my  throne 

In  Theobald’s  time,  and  after  by  thy 
wisdom 

Hast  kept  it  firm  from  shaking  ; but 
now  I, 

Eor  my  realm’s  sake,  myself  must  be 
the  wizard 

To  raise  that  tempest  which  will  set  it 
trembling 

Only  to  base  it  deeper.  I,  true  son 

Of  Holy  Church  — no  croucher  to  the 
Gregorios 

That  tread  the  kings  their  children 
underheel  — 

Must  curb  her ; and  the  Holy  Father, 
while 

This  Barbarossa  butts  him  from  his 
chair, 

Will  need  my  help  — be  facile  to  my 
hands. 

Now  is  my  time.  Yet  — lest  there 
should  be  flashes 

And  fulminations  from  the  side  of 
Rome, 

An  interdict  on  England  — I will  have 

My  young  son  Henry  crown’d  the 
King  of  England, 

That  so  the  Papal  bolt  may  pass  by 
England, 

As  seeming  his,  not  mine,  and  fall 
abroad. 

I’ll  have  it  done  — and  now. 

Bechet.  Surely  too  young 

Even  for  this  shadow  of  a crown  ; and 
tho’ 

I love  him  heartily,  I can  spy  already 

A strain  of  hard  and  headstrong  in 
him.  Say, 

The  Queen  should  play  his  kingship 
against  thine ! 


Henry.  I will  not  think  so,  Thomas. 
Who  shall  crown  him  1 
Canterbury  is  dying. 

Bechet.  The  next  Canterbury. 

Henry.  And  who  shall  he  be,  my 
friend  Thomas  ? Who  ? 

Bechet.  Name  him ; the  Holy  Father 
will  confirm  him. 

Henry  ( lays  his  hand  on  Becket’s 
shoulder).  Here! 

Bechet.  Mock  me  not.  I am  not 
even  a monk. 

Thy  jest  — no  more.  Why  — look  — 
is  this  a sleeve 
For  an  archbishop  1 

Henry.  But  the  arm  within 

Is  Becket’s,  who  hath  beaten  down  my 
foes. 

Bechet.  A soldier’s,  not  a spiritual 
arm. 

Henry.  I lack  a spiritual  soldier, 
Thomas  — 

A man  of  this  world  and  the  next  to 
boot. 

Bechet.  There’s  Gilbert  Foliot. 

Henry.  He  ! too  thin,  too  thin. 
Thou  art  the  man  to  fill  out  the 
Church  robe ; 

Your  Foliot  fasts  and  fawns  too  much 
for  me. 

Bechet.  Roger  of  York. 

Henry.  Roger  is  Roger  of  York. 
King,  Church,  and  State  to  him  but 
foils  wherein 

To  set  that  precious  jewel,  Roger  of 
York. 

No. 

Bechet.  Henry  of  Winchester  J 

Henry.  Him  who  crown’d  Stephen  — 
King  Stephen’s  brother ! No ; too 
royal  for  me. 

And  I’ll  have  no  more  Anselms. 

Bechet.  Sire,  the  business 

Of  thy  whole  kingdom  waits  me : let 
me  go. 

Henry.  Answer' me  first 

Bechet.  Then  for  thy  barren  jest 
Take  thou  mine  answer  in  bare  conv 
monplace  — 

Nolo  episcopari. 

Henry.  Ay,  but  Nolo 

Archiepiscopari,  my  good  friend. 


748 


BECKET. 


Is  quite  another  matter. 

Becket.  A more  lawful  one. 

Make  me  archbishop  ! Why,  my 
liege,  I know 

Some  three  or  four  poor  priests  a 
thousand  times 

Fitter  for  this  grand  function.  Me 
archbishop  ! 

God’s  favor  and  king’s  favor  might  so 
clash 

That  thou  and  I That  were  a 

jest  indeed  ! 

Henry.  Thou  angerest  me,  man : I 
do  not  jest. 

Enter  Eleanor  and  Sir  Reginald 
Fitzurse. 

Eleanor  (singing).  Over!  the  sweet 
summer  closes, 

The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done 

Henry  (to  Becket,  who  is  going). 
Thou  shalt  not  go.  I have  not  ended 
with  thee. 

Eleanor  (seeing  chart  on  table).  This 
chart  with  the  red  line ! her  bower ! 
whose  bower  ? 

Henry.  The  chart  is  not  mine,  but 
Becket’s  : take  it,  Thomas. 

Eleanor.  Becket ! O — ay  — and 
these  chessmen  on  the  floor  — the 
king’s  crown  broken!  Becket  hath 
beaten  thee  again — and  thou  hast 
kicked  down  the  board.  I know  thee 
of  old. 

Henry.  True  enough,  my  mind  was 
set  upon  other  matters. 

Eleanor.  What  matters  ? State 
matters  ? love  matters  ? 

Henry.  My  love  for  thee,  and  thine 
for  me. 

Eleanor.  Over!  the  sweet  summer 
closes, 

The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done ; 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 

And  over  and  gone  with  the  sun. 
Here ; but  our  sun  in  Aquitaine 
lasts  longer.  I would  I were  in  Aqui- 
taine again  — your  north  chills  me. 
Over ! the  sweet  summer  closes, 
And  never  a flower  at  the  close ; 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 

And  winter  again  and  the  snows. 


That  was  not  the  way  I ended  it  first 
— but  unsymmetrically,  preposter- 
ously, illogically,  out  of  passion,  with- 
out art  — like  a song  of  the  people. 
Will  you  have  it  1 The  last  Parthian 
shaft  of  a forlorn  Cupid  at  the  King’s 
left  breast,  and  all  left-handedness 
and  under-handedness. 

And  never  a flower  at  the  close, 

Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 

Not  over  and  gone  with  the  rose. 
True,  one  rose  will  outblossom  the 
rest,  one  rose  in  a bower.  I speak 
after  my  fancies,  for  I am  a Trouba- 
dour, you  know,  and  won  the  violet  at 
Toulouse ; but  my  voice  is  harsh 
here,  not  in  tune,  a nightingale  out  of 
season  ; for  marriage,  rose  or  no  rose, 
has  killed  the  golden  violet. 

Becket.  Madam,  you  do  ill  to  scorn 
wedded  love. 

Eleanor.  So  I do.  Louis  of  France 
loved  me,  and  I dreamed  that  I loved 
Louis  of  France  : and  I loved  Henry  of 
England,  and  Henry  of  England 
dreamed  that  he  loved  me ; but  the 
marriage-garland  withers  even  with 
the  putting  on,  the  bright  link  rusts 
with  the  breath  of  the  first  after- 
marriage kiss,  the  harvest  moon  is 
the  ripening  of  the  harvest,  and  the 
honeymoon  is  the  gall  of  love ; he 
dies  of  his  honeymoon.  I could  pity 
this  poor  world  myself  that  is  no  bet- 
ter ordered. 

Henry.  Dead  is  he,  my  Queen  ? 
What,  altogether  ? Let  me  swear 
nay  to  that  by  this  cross  on  thy  neck. 
God’s  eyes ! what  a lovely  cross ! what 
jewels ! 

Eleanor.  Doth  it  please  you  ? Take 
it  and  wear  it  on  that  hard  heart  of 
yours  — there.  [Gives  it  to  him. 

Henry  ( puts  it  on).  On  this  left 
breast  before  so  hard  a heart, 
To  hide  the  scar  left  by  thy  Parthian 
dart. 

Eleanor.  Has  my  simple  song  set 
you  jingling  ? Nay,  if  I took  and 
translated  that  hard  heart  into  our 
Proven9al  facilities,  I could  so  play 
about  it  with  the  rhyme 


BECKET. 


749 


Henry.  That  the  heart  were  lost  in 
the  rhyme  and  the  matter  in  the  metre. 
May  we  not  pray  you,  Madam,  to  spare 
us  the  hardness  of  your  facility  ? 

Eleanor.  The  wells  of  Castaly  are 
not  wasted  upon  the  desert.  We  did 
but  jest. 

Henry.  There’s  no  jest  on  the 
brows  of  Herbert  there.  What  is  it, 
Herbert  ? 

Enter  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Herbert.  My  liege,  the  good  Arch- 
bishop is  no  more. 

Henry.  Peace  to  his  soul ! 

Herbert.  I left  him  with  peace  on 
his  face  — that  sweet  other-world 
smile,  which  will  be  reflected  in  the 
spiritual  body  among  the  angels.  But 
he  longed  much  to  see  your  Grace  and 
the  Chancellor  ere  he  past,  and  his 
last  words  were  a commendation  of 
Thomas  Becket  to  your  Grace  as  his 
successor  in  the  archbishoprick. 

Henry.  Ha,  Becket ! thou  remem- 
berest  our  talk ! 

Becket.  My  heart  is  full  of  tears 
— I have  no  answer. 

Henry.  Well,  well,  old  men  must 
die,  or  the  world  would  grow  mouldy, 
would  only  breed  the  past  again. 
Come  to  me  to-morrow.  Thou  hast 
but  to  hold  out  thy  hand.  Meanwhile 
the  revenues  are  mine.  A-hawking, 
a-hawking  ! If  I sit,  I grow  fat. 

\_Leaps  over  the  table , and  exit. 

Becket.  He  did  prefer  me  to  the 
chancellorship, 

Believing  I should  ever  aid  the 
Church  — 

But  have  I done  it  ? He  commends 
me  now 

From  out  his  grave  to  this  arch- 
bishoprick. 

Herbert.  A dead  man’s  dying  wish 
should  be  of  weight. 

Becket.  His  should.  Come  with 
me.  Let  me  learn  at  full 
The  manner  of  his  death,  and  all  he 
said. 

[. Exeunt  Herbert  and  Becket. 

Eleanor.  Fitzurse,  that  chart  with 


the  red  line  — thou  sawest  it  — her 
bower. 

Fitzurse.  Rosamund’s  ? 

Eleanor.  Ay  — there  lies  the  secret 
of  her  whereabouts,  and  the  King 
gave  it  to  his  Chancellor. 

Fitzurse.  To  this  son  of  a London 
merchant — how  your  Grace  must 
hate  him. 

Eleanor.  Hate  him  'l  as  brave  a 
soldier  as  Henry  and  a goodlier  man  : 
but  thou — dost  thou  love  this  Chan- 
cellor, that  thou  hast  sworn  a volun- 
tary allegiance  to  him  ? 

Fitzurse.  Not  for  my  love  toward 
him,  but  because  he  had  the  love  of 
the  King.  How  should  a baron  love 
a beggar  on  horseback,  with  the  ret- 
inue of  three  kings  behind  him,  out- 
royalling  royalty  1 Besides,  he  holp 
the  King  to  break  down  our  castles, 
for  the  which  I hate  him. 

Eleanor.  For  the  which  I honor 
him.  Statesman  not  Churchman  he. 
A great  and  sound  policy  that : I 
could  embrace  him  for  it : you  could 
not  see  the  King  for  the  kinglings. 

Fitzurse.  Ay,  but  he  speaks  to  a 
noble  as  tho’  he  were  a churl,  and  to 
a churl  as  if  he  were  a noble. 

Eleanor.  Pride  of  the  plebeian  ! 

Fitzurse.  And  this  plebeian  like  to 
be  Archbishop  ! 

Eleanor.  True,  and  I have  an  in- 
herited loathingof  these  black  sheep  of 
thePapacy.  Archbishop?  Icanseefur- 
ther  into  a man  than  our  hot-headed 
Henry,  and  if  there  ever  come  feud 
between  Church  and  Crown,  and  I do 
not  then  charm  this  secret  out  of  our 
loyal  Thomas,  I am  not  Eleanor. 

Fitzurse.  Last  night  I followed  a 
woman  in  the  city  here.  Her  face 
was  veiled,  but  the  back  methought 
was  Rosamund  — his  paramour,  thy 
rival.  I can  feel  for  thee. 

Eleanor.  Thou  feel  for  me  ! — par- 
amour— rival!  King  Louis  had  no 
paramours,  and  I loved  him  none  the 
more.  Henry  had  many,  and  I loved 
him  none  the  less  — now  neither  more 
nor  less — not  at  all;  the  cup’s  empty. 


750 


BECKET. 


I would  she  were  but  his  paramour, 
for  men  tire  of  their  fancies  ; but  I 
fear  this  one  fancy  hath  taken  root, 
and  borne  blossom  too,  and  she,  whom 
the  King  loves  indeed,  is  a power  in 
the  State.  Rival ! — ay,  and  when 
the  King  passes,  there  may  come  a 
crash  and  embroilment  as  in  Stephen’s 
time  ; and  her  children  — canst  thou 
not  — that  secret  matter  which  would 
heat  the  King  against  thee  ( whispers 
him  and  he  starts ).  Nay,  that  is  safe 
with  me  as  with  thyself  • but  canst 
thou  not — thou  art  drowned  in  debt 
— thou  shalt  have  our  love,  our 
silence,  and  our  gold  — canst  thou 
not  — if  thou  light  upon  her  — free 
me  from  her  ? 

Fitzurse.  Well,  Madam,  I have 
loved  her  in  my  time. 

Eleanor.  No,  my  bear,  thou  hast 
not.  My  Courts  of  Love  would  have 
held  thee  guiltless  of  love — the  fine  at- 
tractions and  repulses,  the  delicacies, 
the  subtleties. 

Fitzurse.  Madam,  I loved  accord- 
ing to  the  main  purpose  and  intent  of 
nature. 

Eleanor.  I warrant  thee ! thou 
wouldst  hug  thy  Cupid  till  his  ribs 
cracked  — enough  of  this.  Follow 
me  this  Rosamund  day  and  night, 
whithersoever  she  goes ; track  her,  if 
thou  canst,  even  into  the  King’s  lodg- 
ing, that  I may  ( clenches  her  fist ) — 
may  at  least  have  my  cry  against 
him  and  her,  — and  thou  in  my  way 
shouldst  be  jealous  of  the  King,  for 
thou  in  thy  way  didst  once,  what  shall 
I call  it,  affect  her  thine  own  self. 

Fitzurse.  Ay,  but  the  young  colt 
winced  and  whinnied  and  flung  up  her 
heels ; and  then  the  King  came  honey- 
ing about  her,  and  this  Becket,  her 
father’s  friend,  like  enough  staved 
us  from  her. 

Eleanor.  Us ! 

Fitzurse.  Yea,  by  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin ! There  were  more  than  I buzzing 
round  the  blossom  — De  Tracy  — even 
that  flint  De  Brito. 

Eleanor.  Carry  her  off  among  you; 


run  in  upon  her  and  devour  her,  one 
and  all  of  you ; make  her  as  hateful 
to  herself  and  to  the  King,  as  she  is 
to  me. 

Fitzurse.  I and  all  would  be  glad 
to  wreak  our  spite  on  the  rosefaced 
minion  of  the  King,  and  bring  her  to 
the  level  of  the  dust,  so  that  the 
King 

Eleanor.  Let  her  eat  it  like  the 
serpent,  and  be  driven  out  of  her 
paradise. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  1. — Becket’s  House  in  Lon- 
don. Chamber  barely  furnished. 

Becket  unrobing.  Herbert  of 

Bosham  and  Servant. 

Servant.  Shall  I not  help  your  lord- 
ship  to  your  rest  ? 

Bechet.  Friend,  am  I so  much  bet- 
ter than  thyself 

That  thou  shouldst  help  me  ? Thou 
art  wearied  out 

With  this  day’s  work,  get  thee  to  thine 
own  bed. 

Leave  me  with  Herbert,  friend. 

[Exit  Servant. 
Help  me  off,  Herbert,  with  this  — and 
this. 

Herbert.  Was  not  the  people’s 
blessing  as  we  past 
Heart-comfort  and  a balsam  to  thy 
blood  ? 

Becket.  The  people  know  their 
Church  a tower  of  strength, 

A bulwark  against  Throne  and  Bar- 
onage. 

Too  heavy  for  me,  this ; off  with  it, 
Herbert ! 

Herbert.  Is  it  so  much  heavier  than 
thy  Chancellor’s  robe  1 

Becket.  No ; but  the  Chancellor’s 
and  the  Archbishop’s 
Together  more  than  mortal  man  can 
bear. 

Herbert.  Not  heavier  than  thine 
armor  at  Thoulouse  ? 

Becket.  O Herbert,  Herbert,  in  my 
chancellorship 


BECKET. 


751 


I more  than  once  have  gone  against 
the  Church. 

Herbert.  To  please  the  King  1 

Becket.  Ay,  and  the  King  of  kings, 
Or  justice ; for  it  seem’d  to  me  but  just 
The  Church  should  pay  her  scutage 
like  the  lords. 

But  hast  thou  heard  this  cry  of  Gil- 
bert Foliot 

That  I am  not  the  man  to  be  your 
Primate, 

For  Henry  could  not  work  a miracle — 
Make  an  Archbishop  of  a soldier  ? 

Herbert.  Ay, 

For  Gilbert  Foliot  held  himself  the 
man. 

Becket.  Am  I the  man  ? My 
mother,  ere  she  bore  me, 
Dream’d  that  twelve  stars  fell  glitter- 
ing out  of  heaven 
Into  her  bosom. 

Herbert.  Ay,  the  fire,  the  light, 
The  spirit  of  the  twelve  Apostles 
enter’d 

Into  thy  making. 

Becket.  And  when  I was  a child, 
The  Virgin,  in  a vision  of  my  sleep, 
Gave  me  the  golden  keys  of  Paradise. 
Dream, 

Or  prophecy,  that  ? 

Herbert.  W ell  dream  and  prophecy 
both. 

Becket.  And  when  I was  of  Theo- 
bald’s household,  once  — 

The  good  old  man  would  sometimes 
have  his  jest  — 

He  took  his  mitre  off,  and  set  it  on  me, 
And  said,  “My  young  Archbishop  — 
thou  wouldst  make 
A stately  Archbishop ! ” Jest  or 
prophecy  there  ? 

Herbert.  Both,  Thomas,  both. 

Becket.  Am  I the  man  ? That  rang 
Within  my  head  last  night,  and  when 
I slept 

Methought  I stood  in  Canterbury 
Minster, 

And  spake  to  the  Lord  God,  and  said, 
“ O Lord, 

I have  been  a lover  of  wines,  and 
delicate  meats, 

And  secular  splendors,  and  a favorer 


Of  players,  and  a courtier,  and  a 
feeder 

Of  dogs  and  hawks,  and  apes,  and 
lions,  and  lynxes. 

Am  I the  man  ? ” And  the  Lord  an- 
swer’d me, 

“ Thou  art  the  man,  and  all  the  more 
the  man.” 

And  then  I asked  again,  “ O Lord  my 
God, 

Henry  the  King  hath  been  my  friend, 
my  brother, 

And  mine  uplifter  in  this  world,  and 
chosen  me 

For  this  thy  great  archbishoprick, 
believing 

That  I should  go  against  the  Churcli 
with  him, 

And  I shall  go  against  him  with  tin: 
Church, 

And  I have  said  no  word  of  this  to 
him  : 

“Am  I the  man?”  And  the  Lor  \ 
answer’d  me, 

“ Thou  art  the  man,  and  all  the  more 
the  man.” 

And  thereupon,  methought,  He  drew 
toward  me, 

And  smote  me  down  upon  the  Minster 
floor. 

I fell. 

Herbert.  God  make  not  thee,  but 
thy  foes,  fall. 

Becket.  I fell.  Why  fall  ? Why 
did  He  smite  me  ? What  ? 

Shall  I fall  off — to  please  the  King 
once  more  ? 

Not  fight  — tho’  somehow  traitor  to 
the  King  — 

My  truest  and  mine  utmost  for  tin 
Church  ? 

Herbert.  Thou  canst  not  fall  thai 
way.  Let  traitor  be ; 

For  how  have  fought  thine  utmost  for 
the  Church, 

Save  from  the  throne  of  thine  arch, 
bishoprick  ? 

And  how  been  made  Archbishop 
hadst  thou  told  him, 

“ I mean  to  fight  mine  utmost  for  the 
Church, 

Against  the  King  ? ” 


752 


BECKET. 


Bechet.  But  dost  thou  think  the 
King 

Forced  mine  election  ? 

Herbert.  I do  think  the  King 

Was  potent  in  the  election,  and  why 
not  ? 

Why  should  not  Heaven  have  so 
inspired  the  King  ? 

Be  comforted.  Thou  art  the  man  — 
be  thou 

A mightier  Anselm. 

Bechet.  I do  believe  thee,  then.  I 
am  the  man. 

And  yet  I seem  appall’d  — on  such  a 
sudden 

At  such  an  eagle-height  I stand  and 
see 

The  rift  that  runs  between  me  and  the 
King. 

I served  our  Theobald  well  when  I 
was  with  him ; 

I served  King  Henry  well  as  Chan- 
cellor ; 

I am  his  no  more,  and  I must  serve 
the  Church. 

This  Canterbury  is  only  less  than 
liome, 

And  all  my  doubts  I fling  from  me 
like  dust, 

Winnow  and  scatter  all  scruples  to 
the  wind, 

And  all  the  puissance  of  the  warrior, 

And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Chancellor, 

And  all  the  heap’d  experiences  of 
life, 

I cast  upon  the  side  of  Canterbury  — 

Our  holy  mother  Canterbury,  who 
sits 

With  tatter’d  robes.  Laics  and 
barons,  thro’ 

The  random  gifts  of  careless  kings, 
have  graspt 

Her  livings,  her  advowsons,  granges, 
farms, 

And  goodly  acres  — we  will  make  her 
whole  ; 

Not  one  rood  lost.  And  for  these 
Royal  customs, 

These  ancient  Royal  customs  — they 
are  Royal, 

Not  of  the  Church  — and  let  them  be 
anathema, 


And  all  that  speak  for  them  ana- 
thema. 

Herbert.  Thomas,  thou  art  moved 
too  much. 

Bechet.  0 Herbert,  here 

I gash  myself  asunder  from  the  King, 
Tho’  leaving  each,  a wound;  mine 
own,  a grief 

To  show  the  scar  for  ever  — his,  a 
hate 

Not  ever  to  be  heal’d. 

Enter  Rosamund  de  Clifford,  flying 
from  Sir  Reginald  Fitzurse. 

Drops  her  veil. 

Bechet.  Rosamund  de  Clifford  ! 

Bosamund.  Save  me,  father,  hide 
me — they  follow  me  — and  I must 
not  be  known. 

Bechet.  Pass  in  with  Herbert  there. 

[ Exeunt  Rosamund  and  Herbert 
by  side  door. 

Enter  Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse , The  Archbishop  ! 

Bechet.  Ay ! what  wouldst  thou, 
Reginald  ? 

Fitzurse.  Why  — why,  my  lord,  I 
follow’d  — follow’d  one 

Bechet.  And  then  what  follows  ? 
Let  me  follow  thee. 

Fitzurse.  It  much  imports  me  I 
should  know  her  name. 

Bechet.  What  her  1 

Fitzurse.  The  woman  that  I fol- 
low’d hither. 

Bechet.  Perhaps  it  may  import  her 
all  as  much 
Not  to  be  known. 

Fitzurse.  And  what  care  I for  that  ? 
Come,  come,  my  lord  Archbishop  ; I 
saw  that  door 

Close  even  now  upon  the  woman. 

Bechet.  Well  ? 

Fitzurse . ( making  for  the  door).  Nay, 
let  me  pass,  my  lord,  for'I  must 
know. 

Bechet.  Back,  man ! 

Fitzurse.  Then  tell  me  who  and 
what  she  is. 

Bechet.  Art  thou  so  sure  thou  fol- 
loweds.  anything 


BECKET. 


753 


Go  home,  and  sleep  thy  wine  off,  for 
thine  eyes 

Glare  stupid-wild  with  wine. 

Fitzurse  ( making  to  the  door).  I 
must  and  will. 

I care  not  for  thy  new  archbishopriek. 

Bechet.  Back,  man,  I tell  thee ! 
What ! 

Shall  I forget  my  new  archbishopriek 

And  smite  thee  with  my  crozier  on  the 
skull  I 

’Fore  God,  I am  a mightier  man  than 
thou. 

Fitzurse.  It  well  befits  thy  new 
archbishopriek 

To  take  the  vagabond  woman  of  the 
street 

Into  thine  arms ! 

Bechet.  O drunken  ribaldry ! 

Out,  beast ! out,  bear ! 

Fitzurse.  I shall  remember  this. 

Bechet.  Do,  and  begone ! 

[Exit  Fitzurse. 

[Going  to  the  door  sees  De  Tracy. 
Tracy,  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

De  Tracy.  My  lord,  I follow’d 
Reginald  Fitzurse. 

Bechet.  Follow  him  out ! 

De  Tracy.  I shall  remember  this 

Discourtesy.  [Exit. 

Bechet.  Do.  These  be  those  baron- 
brutes 

That  havock’dall  the  land  in  Stephen’s 
day. 

Rosamund  de  Clifford. 

Be-enter  Rosamund  and  Herbert. 

Rosamund.  Here  am  I. 

Bechet.  Why  here  ? 

We  gave  thee  to  the  charge  of  John 
of  Salisbury, 

To  pass  thee  to  thy  secret  bower  to- 
morrow. 

Wast  thou  not  told  to  keep  thyself 
from  sight  ? 

Rosamund.  Poor  bird  of  passage ! 
so  I was  ; but,  father, 

They  say  that  you  are  wise  in  winged 
things, 

And  know  the  ways  of  Nature.  Bar 
the  bird 


From  following  the  fled  summer  — a 
chink  — he’s  out, 

Gone ! And  there  stole  into  the  city 
a breath 

Full  of  the  meadows,  and  it  minded 
me 

Of  the  sweet  woods  of  Clifford,  and 
the  walks 

Where  I could  move  at  pleasure,  and 
I thought 

Lo  ! I must  out  or  die. 

Bechet.  Or  out  and  die. 

And  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  this 
Fitzurse  ? 

Rosamund.  Nothing.  He  sued  my 
hand.  I shook  at  him. 

He  found  me  once  alone.  Nay  — 
nay  — I cannot 

Tell  you : my  father  drove  him  and 
his  friends, 

De  Tracy  and  De  Brito,  from  our 
castle. 

I was  but  fourteen  and  an  April 
then. 

I heard  him  swear  revenge. 

Bechet.  Why  will  you  court  it 
By  self-exposure  ? flutter  out  at  night  % 
Make  it  so  hard  to  save  a moth  from 
the  fire  ? 

Rosamund.  I have  saved  many  of 
’em.  You  catch  ’em,  so, 
Softly,  and  fling  them  out  to  the  free 
air. 

They  burn  themselves  within- door. 

Bechet.  Our  good  John 

Must  speed  you  to  your  bower  at 
once.  The  child 
Is  there  already. 

Rosamund.  Yes  — the  child  — the 
child  — 

O rare,  a whole  long  day  of  open  field. 

Bechet.  Ay,  but  you  go  disguised. 

Rosamund.  O rare  again  ! 

We’ll  baffle  them,  I warrant.  What 
shall  it  be  ? 

I’ll  go  as  a nun. 

Bechet.  No. 

Rosamund.  What,  not  good  enough 
Even  to  play  at  nun  ? 

Bechet.  Dan  John  with  a nun, 
That  Map,  and  these  new  railers  at 
the  Church 


754 


BECKET. 


May  plaister  his  clean  name  with 
scurrilous  rhvmes ! 

No! 

Go  like  a monk,  cowling  and  clouding 
up 

That  fatal  star,  thy  Beauty,  from  the 
squint 

Of  lust  and  glare  of  malice.  Good 
night ! good  night ! 

Rosamund.  Father,  I am  so  tender 
to  all  hardness ! 

Nay,  father,  first  thy  blessing. 

Becket.  Wedded1? 

Rosamund.  Father! 

Becket.  Well,  well ! I ask  no  more. 
Heaven  bless  thee!  hence! 

Rosamund.  O,  holy  father,  when 
thou  seest  him  next, 

Commend  me  to  thy  friend. 

Becket.  What  friend  ? 

Rosamund.  The  King. 

Becket.  Herbert,  take  out  a score  of 
armed  men 

To  guard  this  bird  of  passage  to  her 
cage ; 

And  watch  Fitzurse,  and  if  he  follow 
thee, 

Make  him  thy  prisoner.  I am  Chan- 
cellor yet. 

[ Exeunt  Herbert  and  Rosamund. 

Poor  soul ! poor  soul ! 

My  friend,  the  King ! . . . O thou  Great 
Seal  of  England, 

Given  me  by  my  dear  friend  the  King 
of  England  — 

We  long  have  wrought  together,  thou 
and  I — 

Now  must  I send  thee  as  a common 
friend 

To  tell  the  King,  my  friend,  I am 
against  him. 

We  are  friends  no  more:  he  will  say 
that,  not  I. 

The  worldly  bond  between  us  is  dis- 
solved, 

Not  yet  the  love  : can  I be  under  him 

As  Chancellor  ? as  Archbishop  over 
him  ? 

Go  therefore  like  a friend  slighted  by 
one 

That  hath  climb’d  up  to  nobler 
company. 


Not  slighted  — all  but  moan’d  for: 
thou  must  go. 

I have  not  dishonor’d  thee  — I trust  I 
have  not ; 

Not  mangled  justice.  May  the  hand 
that  next 

Inherits  thee  be  but  as  true  to  thee 

As  mine  hath  been ! O,  my  dear 
friend,  the  King! 

0 brother ! — I may  come  to  martyr- 

dom. 

1 am  martyr  in  myself  already.  — 

Herbert ! 

Herbert  ( re-entering ).  My  lord,  the 
town  is  quiet,  and  the  moon 

Divides  the  whole  long  street  with 
light  and  shade. 

No  footfall  — no  Fitzurse.  We  have 
seen  her  home. 

Becket.  The  hog  hath  tumbled  him- 
self into  some  corner, 

Some  ditch,  to  snore  away  his  drunk- 
enness 

Into  the  sober  headache, — Nature’s 
moral 

Against  excess.  Let  the  Great  Seal 
be  sent 

Back  to  the  King  to-morrow. 

Herbert.  Must  that  be  ? 

The  King  may  rend  the  bearer  limb 
from  limb. 

Think  on  it  again. 

Becket.  Against  the  moral  excess 

No  physical  ache,  but  failure  it  may 
be 

Of  all  we  aim’d  at.  John  of  Salisbury 

Hath  often  laid  a cold  hand  on  my 
heats, 

And  Herbert  hath  rebuked  me  even 
now. 

I will  be  wise  and  wary,  not  the 
soldier 

As  Foliot  swears  it. — John,  and  out 
of  breath ! 

Enter  John  of  Salisbury. 

John  of  Salisbury.  Thomas,  thou 
wast  not  happy  taking  charge 

Of  this  wild  Rosamund  to  please  the 
King, 

Nor  am  I happy  having  charge  of 
her  — 


BECKET. 


755 


The  included  Danae  has  escaped  again 

Her  tower,  and  her  Acrisius  — where 
to  seek  ? 

I have  been  about  the  city. 

Bechet.  Thou  wilt  find  her 

Back  in  her  lodging.  Go  with  her  — 
at  once  — 

To-night  — my  men  will  guard  you  to 
the  gates. 

Be  sweet  to  her,  she  has  many  ene- 
mies. 

Send  the  Great  Seal  by  daybreak. 
Both,  good  night ! 


SCENE  II. 

Street  in  Northampton  leading 
to  the  Castle. 

Eleanor’s  Retainers  and  Becket’s 

Retainers  fighting.  Enter  Elea- 
nor and  Becket  from  opposite 

streets. 

Eleanor.  Peace,  fools ! 

Becket.  Peace,  friends  ! what  idle 
brawl  is  this  ? 

Retainer  of  Becket.  They  said  — her 
Grace’s  people  — thou  wast 
found  — 

Liars  ! I shame  to  quote  ’em  — caught, 
my  lord, 

With  a wanton  in  thy  lodging  — Hell 
requite  ’em ! 

Retainer  of  Eleanor.  My  liege,  the 
Lord  Fitzurse  reported  this 

In  passing  to  the  Castle  even  now. 

Retainer  of  Becket.  And  then  they 
mock’d  us  and  we  fell  upon 
’em, 

For  we  would  live  and  die  for  thee, 
my  lord, 

However  kings  and  queens  may  frown 
on  thee. 

Becket  (to  his  Retainers).  Go,  go  — 
no  more  of  this ! 

Eleanor  (to  her  Retainers).  Away!  — 
(Exeunt  Retainers.)  Fitz- 
urse— 

Becket.  Nay,  let  Jiim  be. 

Eleanor.  No,  no,  my  Lord  Arch- 
bishop, 


’Tis  known  you  are  midwinter  to  all 
women, 

But  often  in  your  chancellorship  you 
served 

The  follies  of  the  King. 

Becket.  No,  not  these  follies  ! 

Eleanor.  My  lord,  Fitzurse  beheld 
her  in  your  lodging. 

Becket.  Whom  ? 

Eleanor.  Well  — you  know  — the 
minion,  Rosamund. 

Becket.  He  had  good  eyes  ! 

Eleanor.  Then  hidden  in  the  street 

He  watch’d  her  pass  with  John  of 
Salisbury 

And  heard  her  cry  “ Where  is  this 
bower  of  mine  ? ” 

Becket.  Good  ears  too  ! 

Eleanor.  You  are  going  to  the 

Castle, 

Will  you  subscribe  the  customs  ? 

Becket.  I leave  that, 

Knowing  how  much  you  reverence 
Holy  Church, 

My  liege,  to  your  conjecture. 

Eleanor.  I and  mine  — 

And  many  a baron  holds  along  with 
me  — 

Are  not  so  much  at  feud  with  Holy 
Church 

But  we  might  take  your  side  against 
the  customs  — 

So  that  you  grant  me  one  slight  favor. 

Becket.  What  ? 

Eleanor.  A sight  of  that  same  chart 
which  Henry  gave  you 

With  the  red  line — “ her  bower.” 

Becket.  And  to  what  end  ? 

Eleanor.  That  Church  must  scorn 
herself  whose  fearful  Priest 

Sits  winking  at  the  license  of  a king, 

Altho’  we  grant  when  kings  are  dan- 
gerous 

The  Church  must  play  into  the  hands 
of  kings ; 

Look ! I would  move  this  wanton 
from  his  sight 

And  take  tfie  Church’s  danger  on 
myself. 

Becket.  For  which  she  should  be 
duly  grateful. 

Eleanor.  True ! 


756 


BECKET. 


Tho’  she  that  binds  the  bond,  herself 
should  see 

That  kings  are  faithful  to  their  mar- 
riage vow. 

BecJcet.  Ay,  Madam,  and  queens 
also. 

Eleanor.  And  queens  also  ! 

What  is  your  drift  ? 

Bechet.  My  drift  is  to  the  Castle, 
Where  I shall  meet  the  Barons  and 
my  King.  [Exit. 

De  Broc,  De  Tracy,  De  Brito,  De 
Morville  (passing). 

Eleanor.  To  the  Castle  1 
De  Broc.  Ay  ! 

Eleanor.  Stir  up  the  King,  the 
Lords ! 

Set  all  on  fire  against  him ! 

De  Brito.  Ay,  good  Madam ! 

[Exeunt. 

Eleanor.  Fool ! I will  make  thee 
hateful  to  thy  King. 

Churl ! I will  have  thee  frighted 
into  France, 

And  I shall  live  to  trample  on  thy 
grave. 

SCENE  III.  — The  Hall  in  North- 
ampton Castle. 

On  one  side  of  the  stage  the  doors  of  an 
inner  Council-chamber,  half-open.  At 
the  bottom,  the  great  doors  of  the  Hall. 
Roger  Archbishop  of  York,  Fo- 
liot  Bishop  of  London,  Hilary 
of  Chichester,  Bishop  of  Here- 
ford, Richard  de  Hastings 
(Grand  Prior  of  Templars),  Philip 
de  Eleemosyna  ( The  Pope’s  Al- 
moner), and  others.  De  Broc, 
Fitzurse,  De  Brito,  De  Mor- 
ville, De  Tracy,  and  other 
Barons  assembled  — a table  before 
them.  John  of  Oxford,  President 
of  the  Council. 

Enter  Becket  and  Herbert  of 
Bosham. 

Bechet.  Where  is  the  King  ? 

Roger  of  Yorh.  Gone  hawking  on 
the  Nene, 


His  heart  so  gall’d  with  thine  ingrati- 
tude, 

He  will  not  see  thy  face  till  thou  hast 
sign’d 

These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of 
the  realm. 

Thy  sending  back  the  Great  Seal 
madden’d  him, 

He  all  but  pluck’d  the  bearer’s  eyes 
away. 

Take  heed,  lest  he  destroy  thee  ut- 
terly. 

Bechet.  Then  shalt  thou  step  into 
my  place  and  sign. 

Roger  of  Yorh.  Didst  thou  not 
promise  Henry  to  obey 

These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of 
the  realm  ? 

Bechet.  Saving  the  honor  of  my 
order  — ay. 

Customs,  traditions,  — clouds  that 
come  and  go ; 

The  customs  of  the  Church  are  Peter’s 
rock. 

Roger  of  Yorh.  Saving  thine  order ! 
But  King  Henry  sware 

That,  saving  his  King’s  kingship,  he 
would  grant  thee 

The  crown  itself.  Saving  thine  order, 
Thomas, 

Is  black  and  white  at  once,  and  comes 
to  nought. 

O bolster’d  up  with  stubbornness  and 
pride, 

Wilt  thou  destroy  the  Church  in  fight- 
ing for  it, 

And  bring  us  all  to  shame  ? 

Bechet.  Ro^er  of  York, 

When  I and  thou  were  youths  in 
Theobald’s  house, 

Twice  did  thy  malice  and  thy  calum- 
nies 

Exile  me  from  the  face  of  Theo- 
bald. 

Now  I am  Canterbury  and  thou  art 
York. 

Roger  of  Yorh.  And  is  not  York  the 
peer  of  Canterbury  ? 

Did  not  Great  Gregory  bid  St.  Austin 
here 

Found  two  archbishopricks,  London 
and  York  ? 


BECKET. 


757 


Becket.  What  came  of  that  ? The 
first  archbishop  fled, 

And  York  lay  barren  for  a hundred 
years. 

Why,  by  this  rule,  Foliot  may  claim 
the  pall 

For  London  too. 

Foliot.  And  with  good  reason  too, 
For  London  had  a temple  and  a priest 
When  Canterbury  hardly  bore  a name. 

Becket.  The  pagan  temple  of  a pa- 
gan Rome  ! 

The  heathen  priesthood  of  a heathen 
creed ! 

Thou  goest  beyond  thyself  in  petu- 
lancy ! 

Who  made  thee  London  ? Who,  but 
Canterbury  ? 

John  of  Oxford.  Peace,  peace,  my 
lords ! these  customs  are  no 
longer 

As  Canterbury  calls  them,  wandering 
clouds, 

But  by  the  King’s  command  are  writ- 
ten down, 

And  by  the  King’s  command  I,  John 
of  Oxford, 

The  President  of  this  Council,  read 
them. 

Becket.  Read ! 

John  of  Oxford  [reads).  “All 
causes  of  advowsons  and  presenta- 
tions, whether  between  laymen  or 
clerics,  shall  be  tried  in  the  King’s 
court.” 

Becket.  But  that  I cannot  sign  : for 
that  would  drag 

The  cleric  before  the  civil  judgment- 
seat, 

And  on  a matter  wholly  spiritual. 

John  of  Oxford.  “ If  any  cleric  be 
accused  of  felony,  the  Church  shall 
not  protect  him  ; but  he  shall  answer 
to  the  summons  of  the  King’s  court 
to  be  tried  therein.” 

Becket.  And  that  I cannot  sign. 

Is  not  the  Church  the  visible  Lord  on 
earth  1 

Shall  hands  that  do  create  the  Lord 
be  bound 

Behind  the  back  like  laymen-erim- 
inals  ? 


The  Lord  be  judged  again  by  Pilate? 
No! 

John  of  Oxford.  “ When  a bis- 
hoprick  falls  vacant,  the  King,  till 
another  be  appointed,  shall  receive 
the  revenues  thereof.” 

Becket.  And  that  I cannot  sign.  Is 
the  King’s  treasury 
A fit  place  for  the  monies  of  the 
Church, 

That  be  the  patrimony  of  the  poor  ? 

John  of  Oxford.  “ And  when  the 
vacancy  is  to  be  filled  up,  the  King 
shall  summon  the  chapter  of  that 
church  to  court,  and  the  election  shall 
be  made  in  the  Chapel  Royal,  with 
the  consent  of  our  lord  the  King,  and 
by  the  advice  of  hie  Government.” 

Becket.  And  that  I cannot  sign  : for 
that  would  make 

Our  island-Church  a schism  from 
Christendom, 

And  weight  down  all  free  choice  be- 
neath the  throne. 

Foliot.  And  was  thine  own  election 
so  canonical, 

Good  father  ? 

Becket.  If  it  were  not,  Gilbert 
Foliot, 

I mean  to  cross  the  sea  to  France,  and 
lay 

My  crozier  in  the  Holy  Father’s 
hands, 

And  bid  him  re-create  me,  Gilbert 
Foliot. 

Foliot.  Nay;  by  another  of  these 
customs  thou 

Wilt  not  be  suffer’d  so  to  cross  the  seas 
Without  the  license  of  our  lord  the 
King. 

Becket.  That,  too,  I cannot  sign. 

De  Broc,  De  Brito,  De  Tract, 

Fitzurse,  De  Morville,  start  up 

— a clash  of  swords. 

Sign  and  obey ! 

Becket.  My  lords,  is  this  a combat 
or  a council  ? 

Are  ye  my  masters,  or  my  lord  the 
King  ? 


758 


BECKET. 


Ye  make  this  clashing  for  no  love  o’ 
the  customs 

Or  constitutions,  or  whate’er  ye  call 
them, 

But  that  there  be  among  you  those 
that  hold 

Lands  reft  from  Canterbury. 

De  Broc.  And  mean  to  keep  them, 

In  spite  of  thee  ! 

Lords  [shouting).  Sign,  and  obey  the 
crown ! 

Becket.  The  crown  ? Shall  I do  less 
for  Canterbury 

Than  Henry  for  the  crown  ? King 
Stephen  gave 

Many  of  the  crown  lands  to  those  that 
helpt  him  ; 

So  did  Matilda,  the  King’s  mother. 
Mark, 

When  Henry  came  into  his  own 
again, 

Then  he  took  back  not  only  Stephen’s 
gifts, 

But  his  own  mother’s,  lest  the  crown 
should  be 

Shorn  of  ancestral  splendor.  This 
did  Henry. 

Shall  I do  less  for  mine  own  Canter- 
bury 'i 

And  thou,  De  Broc,  that  boldest  Salt- 
wood  Castle 

De  Broc.  And  mean  to  hold  it, 
or 

Becket.  To  have  my  life. 

De  Broc.  The  King  is  quick  to 
anger  ; if  thou  anger  him, 

We  wait  but  the  King’s  word  to  strike 
thee  dead. 

Becket.  Strike,  and  I die  the  death 
of  martyrdom  ; 

Strike,  and  ye  set  these  customs  by 
my  death 

Ringing  their  own  death-knell  thro’ 
all  the  realm. 

Herbert.  And  I can  tell  you,  lords, 
ye  are  all  as  like 

'To  lodge  a fear  in  Thomas  Becket’s 
heart 

As  find  a hare’s  form  in  a lion’s  cave. 

John  of  Oxford.  Ay,  sheathe  your 
swords,  ye  will  displease  the 
King. 


De  Broc.  Why  down  then  thou ! 
but  an  he  come  to  Saltwood, 

By  God’s  death,  thou  shalt  stick  him 
like  a calf ! \_Sheathing  his  sword. 

Hilary.  O my  good  lord,  I do  en- 
treat thee  — sign. 

Save  the  King’s  honor  here  before  his 
barons. 

He  hath  sworn  that  thou  shouldst 
sign,  and  now  but  shuns 

The  semblance  of  defeat ; I have 
heard  him  say 

He  means  no  more ; so  if  thou  sign, 
my  lord, 

That  were  but  as  the  shadow  of  an 
assent. 

Becket.  ’Twould  seem  too  like  the 
substance,  if  I sign’d. 

Philip  de  Eleemosyna.  My  lord,  thine 
ear!  I have  the  ear  of  the  Pope. 

As  thou  hast  honor  for  the  Pope  our 
master, 

Have  pity  on  him,  sorely  prest  upon 

By  the  fierce  Emperor  and  his  Anti- 
pope. 

Thou  knowest  he  was  forced  to  fly  to 
France ; 

He  pray’d  me  to  pray  thee  to  pacify 

Thy  King  ; for  if  thou  go  against  thy 
King, 

Then  must  he  likewise  go  against  thy 
King, 

And  then  thy  King  might  join  the 
Antipope, 

And  that  would  shake  the  Papacy  as 
it  stands. 

Besides,  thy  King  swore  to  our  car- 
dinals 

He  meant  no  harm  nor  damage  to  the 
Church. 

Smoothe  thou  his  pride  — thy  signing 
is  but  form  ; 

Nay,  and  should  harm  come  of  it  it 
is  the  Pope 

Will  be  to  blame  — not  thou.  Over 
and  over 

He  told  me  thou  shouldst  pacify  the 
King, 

Lest  there  be  battle  between  Heaven 
and  Earth, 

And  Earth  should  get  the  better  — 
for  the  time. 


BECKET. 


759 


Cannot  the  Pope  absolve  thee  if  thou 
sign  ? 

Bechet.  Have  I the  orders  of  the 
Holy  Father  ? 

Philip  de  Eleemosyna.  Orders,  my 
lord  — why,  no ; for  what  am  1 ? 

The  secret  whisper  of  the  Holy 
Father. 

Thou,  that  hast  been  a statesman, 
couldst  thou  always 

Blurt  thy  free  mind  to  the  air  ? 

Bechet.  If  Rome  be  feeble,  then 
should  I be  firm. 

Philip.  Take  it  not  that  way  — 
balk  not  the  Pope’s  will. 

When  he  hath  shaken  off  the  Em- 
peror, 

He  heads  the  Church  against  the  King 
with  thee. 

Richard  de  Hastings  (hneeling). 
Becket,  I am  the  oldest  of  the 
Templars ; 

I knew  thy  father ; he  would  be  mine 
age 

Had  he  lived  now;  think  of  me  as 
thy  father ! 

Behold  thy  father  kneeling  to  thee, 
Becket. 

Submit ; I promise  thee  on  my  salva- 
tion 

That  thou  wilt  hear  no  more  o’  the 
customs. 

Bechet.  What ! 

Hath  Henry  told  thee?  hast  thou 
talk’d  with  him  ? 

Another  Templar  [hneeling).  Father, 
I am  the  youngest  of  the  Tem- 
plars, 

Look  on  me  as  I were  thy  bodily  son, 

For,  like  a son,  I lift  my  hands  to 
thee. 

Philip.  Wilt  thou  hold  out  for  ever, 
Thomas  Becket  ? 

Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 

Bechet  (signs).  Why  — there  then 
— there  — I sign, 

And  swear  to  obey  the  customs. 

Foliot.  Is  it  thy  will, 

My  lord  Archbishop,  that  we  too 
should  sign  ? 

Bechet.  O ay,  by  that  canonical 
obedience 


Thou  still  hast  owed  thy  father,  Gil- 
bert Foliot. 

Foliot.  Loyally  and  with  good  faith, 
my  lord  Archbishop  ? 

Bechet.  O ay,  with  all  that  loyalty 
and  good  faith 

Thou  still  hast  shown  thy  primate, 
Gilbert  Foliot. 

[Becket  draws  apart  with  Herbert. 

Herbert,  Herbert,  have  I betray’d  the 
Church  ? 

I’ll  have  the  paper  back  — blot  out 
my  name. 

Herbert.  Too  late,  my  lord : you  see 
they  are  signing  there. 

Bechet.  False  to  myself  — it  is  the 
will  of  God 

To  break  me,  prove  me  nothing  of 
myself ! 

This  Almoner  hath  tasted  Henry’s 
gold. 

The  cardinals  have  finger’d  Henry’s 
gold. 

And  Rome  is  venal  ev’n  to  rotten- 
ness. 

I see  it,  I see  it. 

I am  no  soldier,  as  he  said  — at  least 

No  leader.  Herbert,  till  I hear  from 
the  Pope 

I will  suspend  myself  from  all  my  func- 
tions. 

If  fast  and  prayer,  the  lacerating 
scourge 

Foliot  ( from  the  table).  My  lord 
Archbishop,  thou  hast  yet  to 
seal. 

Bechet.  First,  Foliot,  let  me  see 
what  I have  sign’d. 

[ Goes  to  the  table. 

What,  this!  and  this! — what!  new 
and  old  together ! 

Seal  ? If  a seraph  shouted  from  the 
sun, 

And  bade  me  seal  against  the  rights  of 
the  Church, 

I would  anathematize  him.  I will 
not  seal.  [ Exit  with  Herbert. 

Enter  King  Henry. 

Henry.  Where’s  Thomas  ? hath  he 
sign’d  ? show  me  the  papers  ! 

Sign’d  and  not  seal’d  ! How’s  that  ? 


760 


BECKET. 


John  of  Oxford.  He  would  not  seal. 

And  when  he  sign’d,  his  face  was 
stormy-red  — 

Shame,  wrath,  I know  not  what.  He 
sat  down  there 

And  dropt  it  in  his  hands,  and  then  a 
paleness, 

Like  the  wan  twilight  after  sunset, 
crept 

Up  even  to  the  tonsure,  and  he 
groan’d, 

“False  to  myself!  It  is  the  will  of 
God ! ” 

Henri/.  God’s  will  be  what  it  will, 
the  man  shall  seal, 

Or  I will  seal  his  doom.  My  burgher’s 
son  — 

Nay,  if  I cannot  break  him  as  the 
prelate, 

I’ll  crush  him  as  the  subject.  Send 
for  him  back. 

[ Sits  on  his  throne. 

Barons  and  bishops  of  our  realm  of 
England, 

After  the  nineteen  winters  of  King 
Stephen  — 

A reign  which  was  no  reign,  when  none 
could  sit 

By  his  own  hearth  in  peace ; when 
murder  common 

As  nature’s  death,  like  Egypt’s  plague, 
had  fill’d 

All  things  with  blood;  when  every 
doorway  blush’d, 

Dash’d  red  with  that  unhallow’d  pass- 
over; 

When  every  baron  ground  his  blade 
in  blood ; 

The  household  dough  was  kneaded  up 
with  blood  ; 

The  millwheel  turn’d  in  blood;  the 
wholesome  plow 

Lay  rusting  in  the  furrow’s  yellow 
weeds, 

Till  famine  dwarf  t the  race — I came, 
your  King ! 

Nor  dwelt  alone,  like  a soft  lord  of 
the  East, 

In  mine  own  hall,  and  sucking  thro’ 
fools’  ears 

The  flatteries  of  corruption  — went 
abroad 


Thro’  all  my  counties,  spied  my  peo- 
ple’s ways  ; 

Yea,  heard  the  churl  against  the  baron 
— yea. 

And  did  him  justice ; sat  in  mine  own 
courts 

Judging  my  judges,  that  had  found  a 
King 

Who  ranged  confusions,  made  the 
twilight  day, 

And  struck  a shape  from  out  the 
vague,  and  law 

From  madness.  And  the  event  — our 
fallows  till’d, 

Much  corn,  repeopled  towns,  a realm 
again. 

So  far  my  course,  albeit  not  glassy- 
smooth, 

Had  prosper’d  in  the  main,  but  sud- 
denly 

Jarr’don  this  rock.  A cleric  violated 

The  daughter  of  his  host,  and  mur- 
der’d him. 

Bishops  — York,  London,  Chichester, 
Westminster  — 

Ye  haled  this  tonsured  devil  into  your 
courts ; 

But  since  your  canon  will  not  let  you 
take 

Life  for  a life,  ye  but  degraded  him 

Where  I had  hang’d  him.  What  doth 
hard  murder  care 

For  degradation?  and  that  made  me 
muse, 

Being  bounden  by  my  coronation  oath 

To  do  men  justice.  Look  to  it,  your 
own  selves ! 

Say  that  a cleric  murder’d  an  arch- 
bishop, 

What  could  ye  do  ? Degrade,  imprison 
him  — 

Not  death  for  death. 

John  of  Oxford.  But  I,  my  liege, 
could  swear, 

To  death  for  death. 

Henry.  And,  looking  thro’  my  reign, 

I found  a hundred  ghastly  murders 
done 

By  men,  the  scum  and  offal  of  the 
Church ; 

Then,  glancing  thro’  the  story  of  this 
realm, 


BECKET. 


761 


[ came  on  certain  wholesome  usages, 
Lost  in  desuetude,  of  my  grandsire’s 
day, 

Good  royal  customs  — had  them  writ- 
ten fair 

For  John  of  Oxford  here  to  read  to 
you. 

John  of  Oxford.  And  I can  easily 
swear  to  these  as  being 
The  King’s  will  and  God’s  will  and 
justice ; yet 

1 could  but  read  a part  to-day,  be- 
cause — 

Fitzarse.  Because  my  lord  of  Can- 
terbury — 

De  Tracy.  Ay, 

This  lord  of  Canterbury 

De  Brito.  As  is  his  wont 

Too  much  of  late  whene’er  your  royal 
rights 

Are  mooted  in  our  councils 

Fitzurse.  — made  an  uproar. 

Henry.  And  Becket  had  my  bosom 
on  all  this ; 

If  ever  man  by  bonds  of  grateful- 
ness — 

I raised  him  from  the  puddle  of  the 
gutter, 

I made  him  porcelain  from  the  clay 
of  the  city  — 

Thought  that  I knew  him,  err’d  thro’ 
love  of  him, 

Hoped,  were  he  chosen  archbishop, 
Church  and  Crown, 

Two  sisters  gliding  in  an  equal 
dance, 

Two  rivers  gently  flowing  side  by 
side  — 

But  no  ! 

The  bird  that  moults  sings  the  same 
song  again, 

The  snake  that  sloughs  comes  out  a 
snake  again. 

Snake  — ay,  but  he  that  lookt  a fang- 
less one, 

Issues  a venomous  adder. 

For  he,  when  having  dofft  the  Chan- 
cellor’s robe  — 

Flung  the  Great  Seal  of  England  in 
my  face  — 

Claim’d  some  of  our  crown  lands  for 
Canterbury  — 


My  comrade,  boon  companion,  my  co- 
reveller, 

The  master  of  his  master,  the  King’s 
king.  — 

God’s  eyes  ! I had  meant  to  make  him 
all  but  king. 

Chancellor-Archbishop,  he  might  well 
have  sway’d 

All  England  under  Henry,  the  young 
King, 

When  I was  hence.  What  did  the 
traitor  say  ? 

False  to  himself,  but  ten-fold  false  to 
me  ! 

The  will  of  God  — why,  then  it  is  my 
will  — 

Is  he  coming  ? 

Messenger  (entering).  With  a crowd 
of  worshippers, 

And  holds  his  cross  before  him  thro’ 
the  crowd, 

As  one  that  puts  himself  in  sanctuary. 

Henry.  His  cross ! 

Boger  of  York.  His  cross  ! I’ll  front 
him,  cross  to  cross. 

[ Exit  Roger  of  York. 

Henry.*  His  cross!  it  is  the  traitor 
that  imputes 

Treachery  to  his  King ! 

It  is  not  safe  for  me  to  look  upon 
him. 

Away  — with  me  ! 

[Goes  in  with  his  Barons  to  the 
Council  Chamber , the  door  of 
which  is  left  open. 

Enter  Becket,  holding  his  cross  of  silver 

before  him.  The  Bishops  come  round 

him. 

Hereford.  The  King  will  not  abide 
thee  with  thy  cross. 

Permit  me,  my  good  lord,  to  bear  it 
for  thee, 

Being  thy  chaplain. 

Becket.  No  : it  must  protect  me. 

Herbert.  As  once  he  bore  the  stand- 
ard of  the  Angles, 

So  now  he  bears  the  standard  of  the 
angels. 

Foliot.  I am  the  Dean  of  the  prov- 
ince : let  me  bear  it. 


762 


BECKET. 


Make  not  thy  King  a traitorous  mur- 
derer. 

Bechet.  Did  not  your  barons  draw 
their  swords  against  me  ? 

Enter  Roger  of  York,  with  his  cross, 
advancing  to  Becket. 

Bechet.  Wherefore  dost  thou  pre- 
sume to  bear  thy  cross, 

Against  the  solemn  ordinance  from 
Rome, 

Out  of  thy  province  ? 

Roger  of  York.  Why  dost  thou  pre- 
sume, 

Arm’d  with  thy  cross,  to  come  before 
the  King  ? 

If  Canterbury  bring  his  cross  to  court, 

Let  York  bear  his  to  mate  with  Can- 
terbury. 

Foliot  ( seizing  hold  of  Becket’s  cross). 
Nay,  nay,  my  lord,  thou  must 
not  brave  the  King. 

Nay,  let  me  have  it.  I will  have  it ! 

Bechet.  Away  ! [ Flinging  him  off. 

Foliot.  He  fasts,  they  say,  this  mi- 
tred Hercules  ! 

He  fast ! is  that  an  arm  of  fast  ? My 
lord, 

Hadst  thou  not  sign’d,  I had  gone 
along  with  thee ; 

But  thou  the  shepherd  hast  betray’d 
the  sheep, 

And  thou  art  perjured,  and  thou  wilt 
not  seal. 

As  Chancellor  thou  wast  against  the 
Church, 

Now  as  Archbishop  goest  against  the 
King  ; 

For,  like  a fool,  thou  knowst  no  mid- 
dle way. 

Ay,  ay ! but  art  thou  stronger  than 
the  King  ? 

Bechet.  Strong  — not  in  mine  own 
self,  but  Heaven ; true 

To  either  function,  holding  it;  and 
thou 

Fast,  scourge  thyself,  and  mortify  thy 
flesh, 

Not  spirit  — thou  remainest  Gilbert 
Foliot, 

A worldly  follower  of  the  worldly 
strong. 


I,  bearing  this  great  ensign,  make  it 
clear 

Under  what  Prince  I fight. 

Foliot.  My  lord  of  York, 

Let  us  go  in  to  the  Council,  where  our 
bishops 

And  our  great  lords  will  sit  in  judg- 
ment on  him. 

Bechet.  Sons  sit  in  judgment  on 
their  father  ! — then 

The  spire  of  the  Holy  Church  may 
prick  the  graves  — 

Her  crypt  among  the  stars.  Sign  ? 
seal  1 I promised 

The  King  to  obey  these  customs,  not 
yet  written, 

Saving  mine  order ; true  too,  that 
when  written 

I sign’d  them  — being  a fool,  as  Foliot 
call’d  me. 

I hold  not  by  my  signing.  Get  ye 
hence, 

Tell  what  I say  to  the  King. 

[Exeunt  Hereford, Foliot,ane/  other 
Bishops. 

Roger  of  York.  The  Church 

will  hate  thee.  [Exit. 

Bechet.  Serve  my  best  friend  and 
make  him  my  worst  foe ; 

Fight  for  the  Church,  and  set  the 
Church  against  me  ! 

Herbert.  To  be  honest  is  to  set  all 
knaves  against  thee. 

Ah  ! Thomas,  excommunicate  them 
all ! 

Hereford  ( re-entering ).  I cannot 
brook  the  turmoil  thou  hast 
raised. 

I would,  my  lord  Thomas  of  Canter- 
bury, 

Thou  wert  plain  Thomas  and  not  Can- 
terbury, 

Or  that  thou  wouldst  deliver  Canter- 
bury 

To  our  King’s  hands  again,  and  be  at 
peace. 

Hilary  ( re-entering ).  For  hath  not 
thine  ambition  set  the  Church 

This  day  between  the  hammer  and 
the  anvil  — 

Fealty  to  the  King,  obedience  to  thy- 
self ? 


BECKET. 


763 


Herbert.  What  say  the  bishops  ? 

Hilary.  Some  have  pleaded  for  him, 

But  the  King  rages  — most  are  with 
the  King; 

And  some  are  reeds,  that  one  time 
sway  to  the  current, 

And  to  the  wind  another.  But  we  hold 

Thou  art  forsworn ; and  no  forsworn 
Archbishop 

Shall  helm  the  Church.  We  therefore 
place  ourselves 

Under  the  shield  and  safeguard  of  the 
Pope, 

And  cite  thee  to  appear  before  the 
Pope, 

And  answer  thine  accusers.  . . . Art 
thou  deaf  1 

Bechet.  I hear  you.  [Clash  of  arms. 

Hilary.  Dost  thou  hear 

those  others  ? 

Bechet.  Ay ! 

Roger  of  Yorh  ( re-entering ).  The 
King's  “ God’s  eyes ! ” come  now 
so  thick  and  fast, 

We  fear  that  he  may  reave  thee  of 
thine  own. 

Come  on,  come  on ! it  is  not  fit  for  us 

To  see  the  proud  Archbishop  muti- 
lated. 

Say  that  he  blind  thee  and  tear  out 
thy  tongue. 

Bechet.  So  be  it.  He  begins  at  top 
with  me  ; 

They  crucified  St.  Peter  downward. 

Roger  of  Yorh.  Nay, 

But  for  their  sake  who  stagger  betwixt 
thine 

Appeal,  and  Henry’s  anger,  yield. 

Bechet.  Hence,  Satan  ! 

[Exit  Roger  of  York. 

Fitzurse  [re-entering).  My  lord,  the 
King  demands  three  hundred 
marks, 

Due  from  his  castles  of  Berkham- 
stead  and  Eye 

When  thou  thereof  wast  warden. 

Bechet.  Tell  the  King 

I spent  thrice  that  in  fortifying  his 
castles. 

Be  Tracy  ( re-entering ).  My  lord, 
the  King  demands  seven  hun- 
dred marks, 


| Lent  at  the  siege  of  Thoulouse  by  the 
King. 

Bechet.  I led  seven  hundred  knights 
and  fought  his  wars. 

De  Brito  (re-entering) . My  lord,  the 
King  demands  five  hundred 
marks, 

Advanced  thee  at  his  instance  by  the 
Jews, 

For  which  the  King  was  bound  secu- 
rity. 

Bechet.  I thought  it  was  a gift ; I 
thought  it  was  a gift. 

Enter  Lord  Leicester  ( followed  by 
Barons  and  Bishops). 

Lord  Leicester.  My  lord,  I come 
unwillingly.  The  King 

Demands  a strict  account  of  all  those 
revenues 

From  all  the  vacant  sees  and  abbacies, 

Which  came  into  thy  hands  when 
Chancellor. 

Bechet.  How  much  might  that 
amount  to,  my  lord  Leicester  1 

Leicester.  Some  thirty  — forty  thou- 
sand silver  marks. 

Bechet.  Are  these  your  customs  ? 0 
my  good  lord  Leicester, 

The  King  and  I were  brothers.  All  I 
had 

I lavish’d  for  the  glory  of  the 
King; 

I shone  from  him,  for  him,  his  glory, 
his 

Reflection : now  the  glory  of  the 

Church 

Hath  swallow’d  up  the  glory  of  the 
King; 

I am  his  no  more,  but  hers.  Grant 
me  one  day 

To  ponder  these  demands. 

Leicester.  Hear  first  thy  sentence  ! 

The  King  and  all  his  lords 

Bechet.  Son,  first  hear  me  ! 

Leicester.  Nay,  nay,  canst  thou,  that 
boldest  thine  estates 

In  fee  and  barony  of  the  King,  decline 

The  judgment  of  the  King  ? 

Bechet.  The  King ! I hold 

Nothing  in  fee  and  barony  of  the 
King. 


764 


BECHET. 


Whatever  the  Church  owns  — she 
holds  it  in 

Free  and  perpetual  alms,  unsubject  to 

One  earthly  sceptre. 

Leicester.  Nay,  but  hear 

thy  judgment. 

The  King  and  all  his  barons 

Bechet.  Judgment ! Barons  ! 

Who  but  the  bridegroom  dares  to 
judge  the  bride, 

Or  he  the  bridegroom  may  appoint  ? 
Not  he 

That  is  not  of  the  house,  but  from  the 
street 

Stain’d  with  the  mire  thereof. 

I had  been  so  true 

To  Henry  and  mine  office  that  the 
King 

Would  throne  me  in  the  great  Arch- 
bishoprick  : 

And  I,  that  knew  mine  own  infirmity, 

For  the  King’s  pleasure  rather  than 
God’s  cause 

Took  it  upon  me — err’d  thro’  love  of 
him. 

Now  therefore  God  from  me  withdraws 
Himself, 

And  the  King  too. 

What ! forty  thousand  marks  ! 

Why  thou,  the  King,  the  Pope,  the 
Saints,  the  world, 

Know  that  when  made  Archbishop  I 
was  freed, 

Before  the  Prince  and  chief  Justiciary, 

From  every  bond  and  debt  and  obli- 
gation 

Incurr’d  as  Chancellor. 

Hear  me,  son. 

As  gold 

Outvalues  dross,  light  darkness,  Abel 
Cain, 

The  soul  the  body,  and  the  Church 
the  Throne, 

I charge  thee,  upon  pain  of  mine 
anathema, 

That  thou  obey,  not  me,  but  God  in 
me, 

Kather  than  Henry.  I refuse  to  stand 

By  the  King’s  censure,  make  my  cry 
to  the  Pope, 

By  whom  I will  be  judged  ; refer  my- 
self, 


The  King,  these  customs,  all  the 
Church,  to  him, 

And  under  his  authority  — I depart. 

[ Going. 

[Leicester  looks  at  him  doubtingly. 
Am  I a prisoner  'i 

Leicester.  By  St.  Lazarus,  no ! 

I am  confounded  by  thee.  Go  in 
peace. 

De  Broc.  In  peace  now  — but  after. 
Take  that  for  earnest. 

[. Flings  a bone  at  him  from  the  rushes. 


De  Brito,  Fitzurse,  De  Tracy  and 
others  [flinging  wisps  of  rushes). 

Ay,  go  in  peace,  caitiff,  caitiff ! And 
that  too,  perjured  prelate  — and  that, 
turncoat  shaveling ! There,  there, 
there  ! traitor,  traitor,  traitor  ! 

Bechet.  Mannerless  wolves ! 

[Turning  and  facing  them. 

Herbert.  Enough,  my  lord,  enough  ! 

Bechet.  Barons  of  England  and  of 
Normandy, 

When  what  ye  shake*  at  doth  but 
seem  to  fly, 

True  test  of  coward,  ye  follow  with 
a yell. 

But  I that  threw  the  mightiest  knight 
of  France, 

Sir  Engelram  de  Trie, 

Herbert.  Enough,  my  lord. 

Bechet.  More  than  enough.  I play 
the  fool  again. 


Enter  Herald. 

Herald.  The  King  commands  you, 
upon  pain  of  death, 

That  none  should  wrong  or  injure 
your  Archbishop. 

Foliot.  Deal  gently  with  the  young 
man  Absalom. 

[ Great  doors  of  the  Hall  at  the  back 
open , and  discover  a crowd. 

They  shout:  Blessed  is  he  that 

cometh  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord ! 


BECKET. 


765 


SCENE  IV.  — Refectory  of  the 

Monastery  at  Northampton.  A 

Banquet  on  the  Tables. 

Enter  Becket.  Becket’s  Retainers. 

First  Retainer.  Do  thou  speak  first. 

Second  Retainer.  Nay,  thou!  Nay, 
thou ! Hast  not  thou  drawn  the  short 
straw  ? 

First  Retainer.  My  lord  Archbishop, 
wilt  thou  permit  us 

Becket.  To  speak  without  stammer- 
ing and  like  a free  man  ? Ay. 

First  Retainer.  My  lord,  permit  us 
then  to  leave  thy  service. 

Becket.  When  ? 

First  Retainer.  Now. 

Becket.  To-niglit  ? 

First  Retainer.  To-night,  my  lord. 

Becket.  And  why  ? 

First  Retainer.  My  lord,  we  leave 
thee  not  without  tears. 

Becket.  Tears  ? Why  not  stay  with 
me  then  ? 

First  Retainer.  My  lord,  we  cannot 
yield  thee  an  answer  altogether  to  thy 
satisfaction. 

Becket.  I warrant  you,  or  your 
own  either.  Shall  I find  you  one  ? 
The  King  hath  frowned  upon  me. 

First  Retainer.  That  is  not  altogether 
our  answer,  my  lord. 

Becket.  No ; yet  all  but  all.  Go, 
go!  Ye  have  eaten  of  my  dish  and 
drunken  of  my  cup  for  a dozen  years. 

First  Retainer.  And  so  we  have. 
We  mean  thee  no  wrong.  Wilt  thou 
not  say,  “ God  bless  you,”  ere  we  go  ? 

Becket.  God  bless  you  all ! God 
redden  your  pale  blood ! But  mine  is 
human-red  ; and  when  ye  shall  hear  it 
is  poured  out  upon  earth,  and  see  it 
mounting  to  Heaven,  may  God  bless 
you,  that  seems  sweet  to  you  now,  will 
blast  and  blind  you  like  a curse. 

First  Retainer.  We  hope  not,  my 
lord.  Our  humblest  thanks  for  your 
blessing.  Farewell ! 

[. Exeunt  Retainers. 

Becket.  Farewell,  friends ! fare- 
well, swallows  ! I wrong  the  bird ; 


she  leaves  only  the  nest  she  built,  they 
leave  the  builder.  Why  ? Am  I to 
be  murdered  to-night  ? 

[Knocking  at  the  door. 

Attendant.  Here  is  a missive  left  at 
the  gate  by  one  from  the  castle. 

Becket.  Cornwall’s  hand  or  Leices- 
ter’s : they  write  marvellously  alike. 

[Reading. 

“ Fly  at  once  to  France,  to  King 
Louis  of  France  : there  be  those  about 
our  King  who  would  have  thy  blood.” 

Was  not  my  lord  of  Leicester  bid- 
den to  our  supper  ? 

Attendant.  Ay,  my  lord,  and  divers 
other  earls  and  barons.  But  the  hour 
is  past,  and  our  brother,  Master  Cook, 
he  makes  moan  that  all  be  a-getting 
cold. 

Becket.  And  I make  my  moan  along 
with  him.  Cold  after  warm,  winter 
after  summer,  and  the  golden  leaves, 
these  earls  and  barons,  that  clung  to 
me,  frosted  off  me  by  the  first  cold 
frown  of  the  King.  Cold,  but  look 
how  the  table  steams,  like  a heathen 
altar  ; nay,  like  the  altar  at  Jerusalem. 
Shall  God’s  good  gifts  be  wasted? 
None  of  them  here  ! Call  in  the  poor 
from  the  streets,  and  let  them  feast. 

Herbert.  That  is  the  parable  of  our 
blessed  Lord. 

Becket.  And  why  should  not  the 
parable  of  our  blessed  Lord  be  acted 
again  1 Call  in  the  poor ! The  Church 
is  ever  at  variance  with  the  kings,  and 
ever  at  one  with  the  poor.  I marked 
a group  of  lazars  in  the  market-place 
— half-rag,  half-sore  — beggars,  poor 
rogues  (Heaven  bless  ’em)  who  never 
saw  or  dreamed  of  such  a banquet.  I 
will  amaze  them.  Call  them  in,  I say. 
They  shall  henceforward  be  my  earls 
and  barons — our  lords  and  masters 
in  Christ  Jesus.  [Exit  Herbert.' 

If  the  King  hold  his  purpose,  I am 
myself  a beggar.  Forty  thousand 
marks  ! forty  thousand  devils  — and 
these  craven  bishops ! 

A Poor  Man  ( entering ) with  his  dog. 
My  lord  Archbishop,  may  I come  in 
with  my  poor  friend,  my  dog  ? The 


766 


BECKET. 


King’s  verdurer  caught  him  a-hunt- 
ing  in  the  forest,  and  cut  off  his  paws. 
The  dog  followed  his  calling,  my  lord. 
I ha’  carried  him  ever  so  many  miles 
in  my  arms,  and  he  licks  my  face  and 
moans  and  cries  out  against  the  King. 

Bechet.  Better  thy  dog  than  thee. 
The  King’s  courts  would  use  thee 
worse  than  thy  dog  — they  are  too 
bloody.  Were  the  Church  king,  it 
would  be  otherwise.  Poor  beast ! 
poor  beast!  set  him  down.  I will  bind 
up  his  wounds  with  my  napkin.  Give 
him  a bone,  give  him  a bone  ! Who 
misuses  a dog  would  misuse  a child  — 
they  cannot  speak  for  themselves. 
Past  help  ! his  paws  are  past  help. 
God  help  him ! 

Enter  the  Beggars  (and  seat  themselves 

at  the  Tables).  Becket  and  Herbert 

wait  upon  them. 

First  Beggar.  Swine,  sheep,  ox  — 
here’s  a French  supper.  When  thieves 
fall  out,  honest  men 

Second  Beggar.  Is  the  Archbishop 
a thief  who  gives  thee  thy  supper  ? 

First  Beggar.  Well,  then,  how  does 
it  go  ? When  honest  men  fall  out, 
thieves  — no,  it  can’t  be  that. 

Second  Beggar.  Who  stole  the 
widow’s  one  sitting  hen  o’  Sunday, 
when  she  was  at  mass  ? 

First  Beggar.  Come,  come ! thou 
hadst  thy  share  on  her.  Sitting  hen  ! 
Our  Lord  Becket’s  our  great  sitting- 
hen  cock,  and  we  shouldn’t  ha’  been 
sitting  here  if  the  barons  and  bishops 
hadn’t  been  a-sitting  on  the  Arch- 
bishop. 

Becket.  Ay,  the  princes  sat  in  judg- 
ment against  me,  and  the  Lord  hath 
prepared  your  table  — Sederunt  prin- 
cipes,  ederunt  pauperes. 

A Voice.  Becket,  beware  of  the 
knife  ! 

Becket.  Who  spoke  ? 

Third  Beggar.  Nobody,  my  lord. 
What’s  that,  my  lord  ? 

Becket.  Venison. 

Third  Beggar.  Venison  ? 

Becket.  Buck  ; deer,  as  you  call  it. 


Third  Beggar.  King’s  meat ! By 
the  Lord,  won’t  we  pray  for  your  lord- 
ship  ! 

Becket.  And,  my  children,  your 
prayers  will  do  more  for  me  in  the  day 
of  peril  that  dawns  darkly  and  drear- 
ily over  the  house  of  God — yea,  and 
in  the  day  of  judgment  also,  than  the 
swords  of  the  craven  sycophants  would 
have  done  had  they  remained  true  to 
me  whose  bread  they  have  partaken. 
I must  leave  you  to  your  banquet. 
Feed,  feast,  and  be  merry.  Herbert, 
for  the  sake  of  the  Church  itself,  if 
not  for  my  own,  I must  fly  to  France 
to-night.  Come  with  me. 

[Exit  ivith  Herbert. 

Third  Beggar.  Here  — all  of  you  — 
my  lord’s  health  ( they  drink).  Well 
— if  that  isn’t  goodly  wine 

First  Beggar.  Then  there  isn’t  a 
goodly  wench  to  serve  him  with  it: 
they  were  fighting  for  her  to-day  in 
the  street. 

Third  Beggar.  Peace  ! 

First  Beggar.  The  black  sheep  baaed 
to  the  miller’s  ewe-lamb, 

The  miller’s  away  for  to-night. 

Black  sheep,  quoth  she,  too  black  a 
sin  for  me. 

And  what  said  the  black  sheep,  my 
masters  ? 

We  can  make  a black  sin  white. 

Third  Beggar.  Peace! 

First  Beggar.  “Ewe  lamb,  ewe 
lamb,  I am  here  by  the  dam.” 
But  the  miller  came  home  that 
night, 

And  so  dusted  his  back  with  the 
meal  in  his  sack, 

That  he  made  the  black  sheep 
white. 

Third  Beggar.  Be  we  not  of  the 
family  ? be  we  not  a-supping  with  the 
head  of  the  family  ? be  we  not  in  my 
lord’s  own  refractory  ? Out  from 
among  us  ; thou  art  our  black  sheep. 

Enter  the  four  Knights. 

Fitzurse.  Sheep,  said  he  ? And 
sheep  without  the  shepherd,  too. 
Where  is  my  lord  Archbishop  ? Thou 


BECKET. 


767 


the  lustiest  and  lousiest  of  this  Cain’s 
brotherhood,  answer. 

Third  Beggar.  With  Cain’s  answer, 
my  lord.  Am  I his  keeper  1 Thou 
shouldst  call  him  Cain,  not  me. 

Fitzurse.  So  I do,  for  he  would 
murder  his  brother  the  State. 

Third  Beggar  ( rising  and  advancing). 
No,  my  lord  ; but  because  the  Lord 
hath  set  his  mark  upon  him  that  no 
man  should  murder  him. 

Fitzurse.  Where  is  he  ? where  is  he  1 

Third  Beggar.  With  Cain  belike,  in 
the  land  of  Nod,  or  in  the  land  of 
France  for  aught  I know. 

Fitzurse.  France ! Ha ! De  Mor- 
ville,  Tracy,  Brito  — fled  is  he?  Cross 
swords  all  of  you ! swear  to  follow 
him ! Remember  the  Queen  ! 

{The  four  Knights  cross  their  swords. 

De  Brito.  They  mock  us ; he  is  here. 

{All  the  Beggars  rise  and  advance 
upon  them. 

Fitzurse.  Come,  you  filthy  knaves, 
let  us  pass. 

Third  Beggar.  Nay,  my  lord,  let  us 
pass.  We  be  a-going  home  after  our 
supper  in  all  humbleness,  my  lord ; for 
the  Archbishop  loves  humbleness,  my 
lord ; and  though  we  be  fifty  to  four, 
we  daren’t  fight  you  with  our  crutches, 
my  lord.  There  now,  if  thou  hast  not 
laid  hands  upon  me ! and  my  fellows 
know  that  I am  all  one  scale  like  a 
fish.  I pray  God  I haven’t  given  thee 
my  leprosy,  my  lord. 

[Fitzurse  shrinks  from  him  and  an- 
other presses  upon  De  Brito. 

De  Brito.  Away,  dog  ! 

Fourth  Beggar.  And  I was  bit  by  a 
mad  dog  o’  Friday,  an’  I be  half  dog 
already  by  this  token,  that  tho’  I can 
drink  wine  I cannot  bide  water,  my 
lord  ; and  I want  to  bite,  I want  to  bite, 
and  they  do  say  the  very  breath  catches . 

De  Brito.  Insolent  clown.  Shall  I 
smite  him  with  the  edge  of  the  sword  ? 

De  Morville.  No,  nor  with  the  flat 
of  it  either.  Smite  the  shepherd  and 
the  sheep  are  scattered.  Smite  the 
sheep  and  the  shepherd  will  excom- 
municate thee. 


De  Brito.  Yet  my  fingers  itch  to 
beat  him  into  nothing. 

Fifth  Beggar.  So  do  mine,  my  lord. 
I was  born  with  it,  and  sulphur  won’t 
bring  it  out  o’  me.  But  for  all  that 
the  Archbishop  washed  my  feet  o’ 
Tuesday.  He  likes  it,  my  lord. 

Sixth  Beggar.  And  see  here,  my 
lord,  this  rag  fro’  the  gangrene  i’  my 
leg.  It’s  humbling  — it  smells  o’  hu- 
man natur’.  Wilt  thou  smell  it,  my 
lord  ? for  the  Archbishop  likes  the 
smell  on  it,  my  lord  ; for  I be  his 
lord  and  master  i’  Christ,  my  lord. 

De  Morville.  Faugh  ! we  shall  all  be 
poisoned.  Let  us  go. 

{They  draw  back,  Beggars  following. 

Seventh  Beggar.  My  lord,  I ha’  three 
sisters  a-dying  at  home  o’  the  sweat- 
ing sickness.  They  be  dead  while  I be 
a-supping. 

Eighth  Beggar.  And  I ha’  nine  dar- 
ters i’  the  spital  that  be  dead  ten  times 
o’er  i’  one  day  wi’  the  putrid  fever ; 
and  I bring  the  taint  on  it  along  wi’ 
me,  for  the  Archbishop  likes  it,  my 
lord. 

{Pressing  upon  the  Knights  till  they 
disappear  thro’  the  door. 

Third  Beggar.  Crutches,  and  itches, 
and  leprosies,  and  ulcers,  and  gan- 
grenes, and  running  sores,  praise  ye 
the  Lord,  for  to-night  ye  have  saved 
our  Archbishop  ! 

First  Beggar.  I’ll  go  back  again.  I 
hain’t  half  done  yet. 

Herbert  of  Bosham  [entering).  My 
friends,  the  Archbishop  bids  you  good- 
night. He  hath  retired  to  rest,  and 
being  in  great  jeopardy  of  his  life,  he 
hath  made  his  bed  between  the  altars, 
from  whence  he  sends  me  to  bid  you 
this  night  pray  for  him  who  hath  fed 
you  in  the  wilderness. 

Third  Beggar.  So  we  will  — so  we 
will,  I warrant  thee.  Becket  shall  be 
king  and  the  Holy  Father  shall  be 
king,  and  the  world  shall  live  by  the 
King’s  venison  and  the  bread  o’  the 
Lord,  and  there  shall  be  no  more  poor 
for  ever.  Hurrah ! Vive  le  roy ! 
That’s  the  English  of  it. 


768 


BECKET. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  — Rosamund’s  Bower. 
A Garden  of  Flowers.  In  the 

MIDST  A BANK  OF  WILD-FLOWERS 
WITH  A BENCH  BEFORE  IT. 

Voices  heard  singing  among  the  trees. 
DUET. 

1.  Is  it  the  wind  of  the  dawn  that  I 

hear  in  the  pine  overhead  % 

2.  No ; hut  the  voice  of  the  deep  as  it 

hollows  the  cliffs  of  the  land. 

1.  Is  there  a voice  coming  up  with 

the  voice  of  the  deep  from  the 
strand, 

One  coming  up  with  a song  in  the 
flush  of  the  glimmering  red  l 

2.  Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  com- 

ing up  with  the  sun  from  the  sea. 

1.  Love  that  can  shape  or  can  shatter 

a life  till  the  life  shall  have  fled'? 

2.  Nay,  let  us  welcome  him,  Love 

that  can  lift  up  a life  from  the 
dead. 

1.  Keep  him  away  from  the  lone  little 

isle.  Let  us  be,  let  us  be. 

2.  Nay,  let  him  make  it  his  own,  let 

him  reign  in  it  — he,  it  is  he, 
Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  com- 
ing up  with  the  sun  from  the 
sea. 

Enter  Henry  and  Rosamund. 
Rosamund.  Be  friends  with  him 
again  — I do  beseech  thee. 
Henry.  With  Becket  ? I have  but 
one  hour  with  thee  — 

Sceptre  and  crozier  clashing,  and  the 
mitre 

Grappling  the  crown  — and  when  I 
flee  from  this 

For  a gasp  of  freer  air,  a breathing- 
while 

To  rest  upon  thjr  bosom  and  forget 
him  — 

Why  thou,  my  bird,  thou  pipest 
Becket,  Becket  — 

Yea,  thou  my  golden  dream  of  Love’s 
own  bower, 


Must  be  the  nightmare  breaking  on 
my  peace 

With  “ Becket.” 

Rosamund.  O my  life’s  life,  not  to 
smile 

Is  all  but  death  to  me.  My  sun,  no 
cloud ! 

Let  there  not  be  one  frown  in  this  one 
hour. 

Out  of  the  many  thine,  let  this  be 
mine ! 

Look  rather  thou  all-royal  as  when 
first 

I met  thee. 

Henry.  Where  was  that  ? 

Rosamund.  ’ Forgetting  that 

Forgets  me  too. 

Henry.  Nay,  I remember  it  well. 

There  on  the  moors. 

Rosamund.  And  in  a narrow  path. 

A plover  flew  before  thee.  Then  I saw 

Thy  high  black  steed  among  the  flam- 
ing furze, 

Like  sudden  night  in  the  main  glare 
of  day. 

And  from  that  height  something  was 
said  to  me 

I knew  not  what. 

Henry.  I ask’d  the  way. 

Rosamund.  I think  so. 

So  I lost  mine. 

Henry.  Thou  wast  too  shamed  to 
answer. 

Rosamund.  Too  scared  — so  young  ! 

Henry.  The  rosebud  of  my  rose  ! — 

Well,  well,  no  more  of  him  — I have 
sent  his  folk, 

His  kin,  all  his  belongings,  overseas  ; 

Age,  orphans,  and  babe-breasting 
mothers  — all 

By  hundreds  to  him  — there  to  beg, 
starve,  die  — 

So  that  the  fool  King  Louis  feed  them 
not. 

The  man  shall  feel  that  I can  strike 
him  yet. 

Rosamund.  Babes,  orphans,  moth- 
ers ! is  that  royal,  Sire  ? 

Henry.  And  I have  been  as  royal 
with  the  Church. 

He  shelter’d  in  the  Abbey  of  Pon- 
tigny. 


BECKET. 


769 


There  wore  his  time  studying  the 
canon  law 

To  work  it  against  me.  But  since  he 
cursed 

My  friends  at  Veselay,  I have  let 
them  know, 

That  if  they  keep  him  longer  as  their 
guest, 

I scatter  all  their  cowls  to  all  the 
hells. 

Rosamund.  And  is  that  altogether 
royal  ? 

Henry.  Traitress ! 

Rosamund.  A faithful  traitress  to 
thy  royal  fame. 

Henry.  Fame ! what  care  I for 
fame  ? Spite,  ignorance,  envy, 
Yea,  honesty  too,  paint  her  what  way 
they  will. 

Fame  of  to-day  is  infamy  to-morrow ; 
Infamy  of  to-day  is  fame  to-morrow  ; 
And  round  and  round  again.  What 
matters  ? Royal  — 

I mean  to  leave  the  royalty  of  my 
crown 

Unlessen’d  to  mine  heirs. 

Rosamund.  Still  — thy  fame  too  : 

I say  that  should  be  royal. 

Henry.  And  I say, 

I care  not  for  thy  saying. 

Rosamund.  And  I say, 

I care  not  for  thy  saying.  A greater 
King 

Than  thou  art,  Love,  who  cares  not 
for  the  word, 

Makes  “ care  not  ” — care.  There 
have  I spoken  true  1 

Henry.  Care  dwell  with  me  for  ever, 
when  I cease 
To  care  for  thee  as  ever  ! 

Rosamund.  No  need  ! no  need ! . . . 
There  is  a bench.  Come,  wilt  thou 
sit  ...  My  bank 
Of  wild-flowers.  [He  sits.']  At  thy  feet ! 

[She  sits  at  his  feet. 

Henry.  I bade  them  clear 

A royal  pleasaunce  for  thee,  in  the 
wood, 

Not  leave  these  countryfolk  at  court. 

Rosamund.  I brought  them 

In  from  the  wood,  and  set  them  here. 
I love  them 


More  than  the  garden  flowers,  that 
seem  at  most 

Sweet  guests,  or  foreign  cousins,  not 
half  speaking 

The  language  of  the  land.  I love 
them  too, 

Yes.  But,  my  liege,  I am  sure,  of  all 
the  roses  — 

Shame  fall  on  those  who  gave  it  a 
dog’s  name  — 

This  wild  one  ( picking  a briar-rose)  — 
nay,  I shall  not  prick  myself  — 

Is  sweetest.  Do  but  smell ! 

Henry.  Thou  rose  of  the  world ! 

Thou  rose  of  all  the  roses  ! 

[Muttering. 

I am  not  worthy  of  her  — this  beast- 
body 

That  God  has  plunged  my  soul  in  — I, 
that  taking 

The  Fiend’s  advantage  of  a throne,  so 
long 

Have  wander’d  among  women,  — a 
foul  stream 

Thro’  fever-breeding  levels,  — at  her 
side, 

Among  these  happy  dales,  run  clearer, 
drop 

The  mud  I carried,  like  yon  brook,  and 
glass 

The  faithful  face  of  heaven  — 

[Looking  at  her  and  unconscious} y aloud. 

— Thine ! thine  ! 

Rosamund.  I know  it. 

Henry  ( muttering ).  Not  hers.  We 
have  but  one  bond,  her  hate  of 
Becket. 

Rosamund  {half  hearing).  Nay  ! nay  ! 
what  art  thou  muttering  1 I 
hate  Becket  'i 

Henry  (muttering).  A sane  and 
natural  loathing  for  a soul 

Purer,  and  truer  and  nobler  than  her- 
self ; 

And  mine  a bitterer  illegitimate  hate, 

A bastard  hate  born  of  a former  love. 

Rosamund.  My  fault  to  name  him  ! 
0 let  the  hand  of  one 

To  whom  thy  voice  is  all  her  music, 
stay  it 

But  for  a breath. 

[Puts  her  hand  before  his  lips. 


770 


BECKET. 


Speak  only  of  thy  love. 

Why  there  — like  some  loud  beggar 
at  thy  gate  — 

The  happy  boldness  of  this  hand  hath 
won  it 

Love’s  alms,  thy  kiss  ( looking  at  her 
hand) — Sacred!  I’ll  kiss  it 

too.  [. Kissing  it. 

There  ! wherefore  dost  thou  so  peruse 
it  ? Nay, 

There  may  be  crosses  in  my  line  of 
life. 

Henry.  Not  half  her  hand  — no  hand 
to  mate  with  her , 

If  it  should  come  to  that. 

Rosamund.  With  her  ? with  whom  ? 

Henry.  Life  on  the  hand  is  naked 
gipsy-stuff ; 

Life  on  the  face,  the  brows  — clear 
innocence ! 

Yein’d  marble  — not  a furrow  yet  — 
and  hers  [Muttering . 

Crost  and  recrost,  a venomous  spider’s 
web 

Rosamund  ( springing  up).  Out  of  the 
cloud,  my  Sun  — out  of  the 
eclipse 

Narrowing  my  golden  hour ! 

Henry.  O Rosamund, 

I would  be  true  — would  tell  thee  all 
— and  something 

I had  to  say  — I love  thee  none  the 
less  — 

Which  will  so  vex  thee. 

Rosamund.  Something  against  me ? 

Henry.  No,  no,  against  myself. 

Rosamund.  I will  not  hear  it. 

Come,  come,  mine  hour ! I bargain 
for  mine  hour. 

I’ll  call  thee  little  Geoffrey. 

Henry.  Call  him ! 

Rosamund.  Geoffrey ! 

Enter  Geoffrey. 

Henry.  How  the  boy  grows  ! 

Rosamund.  Ay,  and  his  brows  are 
thine ; 

The  mouth  is  only  Clifford,  my  dear 
father. 

Geoffrey.  My  liege,  what  hast  thou 
brought  me  'i 

Henry. 


What  say’st  thou  to  the  Chancellor- 
ship of  England  I 
Geoffrey.  O yes,  my  liege. 

Henry.  “ 0 yes,  my  liege ! ” He 
speaks 

As  if  it  were  a cake  of  gingerbread. 

Dost  thou  know,  my  boy,  what  it  is 
to  be  Chancellor  of  England  ? 

Geoffrey.  Something  good,  or  thou 
wouidst  not  give  it  me. 

Henry.  It  is,  my  boy,  to  side  with 
the  King  when  Chancellor,  and  then 
to  be  made  Archbishop  and  go  against 
the  King  who  made  him,  and  turn  the 
world  upside  down. 

Geoffrey.  I won’t  have  it  then. 
Nay,  but  give  it  me,  and  I promise 
thee  not  to  turn  the  world  upside  down. 

Henry  [giving  him  a ball).  Here  is 
a ball,  my  boy,  thy  world,  to  turn 
anyway  and  play  with  as  thou  wilt  — 
which  is  more  than  I can  do  with 
mine.  Go  try  it,  play.  [ Exit  Geoffrey. 
A pretty  lusty  boy. 

Rosamund.  So  like  to  thee  ; 

Like  to  be  liker. 

Henry.  Not  in  my  chin,  I hope  ! 
That  threatens  double. 

Rosamund.  Thou  art  manlike  per- 
fect. 

Henry.  Ay,  ay,  no  doubt ; and  were 
I humpt  behind, 

Thou’d  say  as  much — the  goodly 
way  of  women 

Who  love,  for  which  I love  them. 
May  God  grant 

No  ill  befall  or  him  or  thee  when  I 
Am  gone. 

Rosamund.  Is  he  thy  enemy  ? 
Henry.  He  ? who  ? ay  ! 

Rosamund.  Thine  enemy  knows  the 
secret  of  my  bower. 

Henry.  And  I could  tear  him 
asunder  with  wild  horses 
Before  he  would  betray  it.  Nay  — 
no  fear ! 

More  like  is  he  to  excommunicate  me. 
Rosamund.  And  I would  creep, 
crawl  over  knife-edge  flint 
Barefoot,  a hundred  leagues,  to  stay 
his  hand 

Before  he  flash’d  the  bolt. 


Venal  imp ! 


BECKET. 


771 


Henry.  And  when  he  flash’d  it 

Shrink  from  me,  like  a daughter  of 
the  Church. 

Rosamund.  Ay,  but  he  will  not. 

Henry.  Ay ! but  if  he  did  ? 

Rosamund.  O then ! O then ! I 
almost  fear  to  say 

That  my  poor  heretic  heart  would 
excommunicate 

His  excommunication,  clinging  to  thee 

Closer  than  ever. 

Henry  ( raising  Rosamund  and  hiss- 
ing her).  My  brave-hearted 
Rose! 

Hath  he  ever  been  to  see  thee  ? 

Rosamund.  Here  ? not  he. 

And  it  is  so  lonely  here  — no  con- 
fessor. 

Henry.  Thou  shalt  confess  all  thy 
sweet  sins  to  me. 

Rosamund.  Besides,  we  came  away 
in  such  a heat, 

I brought  not  ev’n  my  crucifix. 

Henry.  Take  this. 

[ Giving  her  the  Crucifix  which 
Eleanor  gave  him. 

Rosamund.  O beautiful ! May  I 
have  it  as  mine,  till  mine 

Be  mine  again  1 

Henry  ( throwing  it  round  her  neck). 
Thine  — as  I am  — till  death  ! 

Rosamund.  Death  1 no  ! I’ll  have 
it  with  me  in  my  shroud, 

And  wake  with  it,  and  show  it  to  all 
the  Saints. 

Henry.  Nay  — I must  go ; but  when 
thou  layest  thy  lip 

To  this,  remembering  One  who  died 
for  thee, 

Remember  also  one  who  lives  for  thee 

Out  there  in  France ; for  I must  hence 
to  brave 

The  Pope,  King  Louis,  and  this  turbu- 
lent priest. 

Rosamund  [kneeling).  O by  thy  love 
for  me,  all  mine  for  thee, 

Fling  not  thy  soul  into  the  flames  of 
hell: 

I kneel  to  thee  — be  friends  with  him 
again. 

Henry.  Look,  look  ! if  little  Geof- 
frey have  not  tost 


His  ball  into  the  brook  ! makes  after 
it  too 

To  find  it.  Why,  the  child  will  drown 
himself. 

Rosamund.  Geoffrey ! Geoffrey  ! 

\Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.  — Montmirail.  “ The 

Meeting  of  the  Kings.”  John 

of  Oxford  and  Henry.  Crowd 

IN  THE  DISTANCE. 

John  of  Oxford.  You  have  not 
crown’d  young  Henry  yet,  my 
liege  ? 

Henry.  Crown’d!  by  God’s  eyes, 
we  will  not  have  him  crown’d. 

I spoke  of  late  to  the  boy,  he  an- 
swer’d me, 

As  if  he  wore  the  crown  already  — 
No, 

We  will  not  have  him  crown’d. 

’Tis  true  what  Becket  told  me,  that 
the  mother 

Would  make  him  play  his  kingship 
against  mine. 

John  of  Oxford.  Not  have  him 
crown’d  ? 

Henry.  Not  now  — not  yet ! and 
Becket  — 

Becket  should  crown  him  were  he 
crown’d  at  all : 

But,  since  we  would  be  lord  of  our 
own  manor, 

This  Canterbury,  like  a wounded  deer, 

Has  fled  our  presence  and  our  feeding- 
grounds. 

John  of  Oxford.  Cannot  a smooth 
tongue  lick  him  whole  again 

To  serve  your  will  1 

Henry.  He  hates  my  will,  not  me. 

John  of  Oxford.  There’s  York,  my 
liege. 

Henry.  But  England  scarce  would 
hold 

Young  Henry  king,  if  only  crown’d 
by  York, 

And  that  would  stilt  up  York  to  twice 
himself. 

There  is  a movement  yonder  in  the 
crowd  — 


772 


BECKET. 


See  if  our  pious  — what  shall  I call 
him,  John  ? — 

Husband-in-law,  our  smooth-shorn 
suzerain, 

Be  yet  within  the  field. 

John  of  Oxford.  I will.  [Exit. 

Henry.  Ay  ! Ay  ! 

Mince  and  go  back ! his  politic  Holi- 
ness 

Hath  all  but  climb’d  the  Roman  perch 
again, 

And  we  shall  hear  him  presently  with 
clapt  wing 

Crow  over  Barbarossa  — at  last 
tongue-free 

To  blast  my  realms  with  excommuni- 
cation 

And  interdict.  I must  patch  up  a 
peace  — 

A piece  in  this  long-tugged  at,  thread- 
bare worn 

Quarrel  of  Crown  and  Church  — to 
rend  again. 

His  Holiness  cannot  steer  straight 
thro’  shoals, 

Nor  I.  The  citizen’s  heir  hath  con- 
quer’d me 

For  the  moment.  So  we  make  our 
peace  with  him. 

Enter  Louis. 

Brother  of  France,  what  shall  be  done 
with  Becket  ? 

Louis.  The  holy  Thomas  ! Brother, 
you  have  traffick’d 

Between  the  Emperor  and  the  Pope, 
between 

The  Pope  and  Antipope  — a perilous 
game 

For  men  to  play  with  God. 

Henry.  Ay,  ay,  good  brother, 

They  call  you  the  Monk-King. 

Louis.  Who  calls  me  "?  she 

That  was  my  wife,  now  yours  1 You 
have  her  Duchy, 

The  point  you  aim’d  at,  and  pray 
God  she  prove 

True  wife  to  you.  You  have  had  the 
better  of  us 

In  secular  matters. 

Henry.  Come,  confess,  goodbrother, 


You  did  your  best  or  worst  to  keep 
her  Duchy. 

Only  the  golden  Leopard  printed  in  it 

Such  hold-fast  claws  that  you  per- 
force again 

Shrank  into  France.  Tut,  tut!  did 
we  convene 

This  conference  but  to  babble  of  our 
wives  *? 

They  are  plagues  enough  in-door. 

Louis.  We  fought  in  the  East, 

And  felt  the  sun  of  Antioch  scald  our 
mail, 

And  push’d  our  lances  into  Saracen 
hearts. 

We  never  hounded  on  the  State  at 
home 

To  spoil  the  Church. 

Henry.  How  should  you  see  this 
rightly  ? 

Louis.  Well,  well,  no  more  ! I am 
proud  of  my  “ Monk-King,” 

Whoever  named  me;  and,  brother. 
Holy  Church 

May  rock,  but  will  not  wreck,  nor  our 
Archbishop 

Stagger  on  the  slope  decks  for  any 
rough  sea 

Blown  by  the  breath  of  kings.  We 
do  forgive  you 

For  aught  you  wrought  against  us. 

[Henry  holds  up  his  hand. 

Nay,  I pray  you. 

Do  not  defend  yourself.  You  will  do 
much 

To  rake  out  old  djdng  heats,  if 
you, 

At  my  requesting,  will  but  look  into 

The  wrongs  you  did  him,  and  restore 
his  kin, 

Reseat  him  on  his  throne  of  Canter- 
bury, 

Be,  both,  the  friends  you  were. 

Henry.  The  friends  we  were  ! 

Co-mates  we  were,  and  had  our  sport 
together, 

Co-kings  we  were,  and  made  the  laws 
together. 

The  world  had  never  seen  the  like 
before. 

You  are  too  cold  to  know  the  fashion 
of  it. 


BECKET. 


773 


Well,  well,  we  will  be  gentle  with 
him,  gracious  — 

Most  gracious. 

Enter  Becket,  after  him,  John  of 
Oxford,  Roger  of  York,  Gil- 
bert Foliot,  De  Broc,  Fitzurse, 
etc. 

Only  that  the  rift  he  made 
May  close  between  us,  here  I am 
wholly  king, 

The  word  should  come  from  him. 
Becket  (kneeling).  Then,  my  dear 
liege, 

I here  deliver  all  this  controversy 
Into  your  royal  hands. 

Henrg.  Ah,  Thomas,  Thomas, 
Thou  art  thyself  again,  Thomas  again. 
Becket  ( rising).  Saving  God’s  honor ! 
Henrg.  Out  upon  thee,  man  \ 

Saving  the  Devil’s  honor,  his  yes  and 
no. 

Knights,  bishops,  earls,  this  London 
spawn  — by  Mahound, 

I had  sooner  have  been  born  a Mus- 
sulman — 

Less  clashing  with  their  priests  — 

I am  half-way  down  the  slope  — will 
no  man  stay  me  'i 

I dash  myself  to  pieces  — I stay  my- 
self— 

Puff  — it  is  gone.  You,  Master 
Becket,  you 

That  owe  to  me  your  power  over  me — 
Nay,  nay  — 

Brother  of  France,  you  have  taken, 
cherish’d  him 

Who  thief-like  fled  from  his  own 
church  by  night, 

No  man  pursuing.  I would  have  had 
him  back. 

Take  heed  he  do  not  turn  and  rend 
you  too  : 

For  whatsoever  may  displease  him  — 
that 

Is  clean  against  God’s  honor  — a shift, 
a trick 

Whereby  to  challenge,  face  me  out  of 
all 

My  regal  rights.  Yet,  yet  — that 
none  may  dream 


I go  against  God’s  honor  — ay,  or  him- 
self 

In  any  reason,  choose 

A hundred  of  the  wisest  heads  from 
England, 

A hundred,  too,  from  Normandy  and 
Anjou : 

Let  these  decide  on  what  was  cus- 
tomary 

In  olden  days,  and  all  the  Church  of 
France 

Decide  on  their  decision,  I am  con 
tent. 

More,  what  the  mightiest  and  the 
holiest 

Of  all  his  predecessors  may  have  done 

Ev’n  to  the  least  and  meanest  of  my 
own, 

Let  him  do  the  same  to  me  — I am 
content. 

Louis.  Ay,  ay ! the  King  humbles 
himself  enough. 

Becket  (aside).  Words!  he  will 
wriggle  out  of  them  like  an  eel 

When  the  time  serves.  (Aloud.)  My 
lieges  and  my  lords, 

The  thanks  of  Holy  Church  are  due 
to  those 

That  went  before  us  for  their  work, 
which  we 

Inheriting  reap  an  easier  harvest. 
Yet 

Louis.  My  lord,  will  you  be  greater 
than  the  Saints, 

More  than  St.  Peter  ? whom 

what  is  it  you  doubt  ? 

Behold  your  peace  at  hand. 

Becket.  I say  that  those 

Who  went  before  us  did  not  wholly 
clear 

The  deadly  growths  of  earth,  which 
Hell’s  own  heat 

So  dwelt  on  that  they  rose  and  dark- 
en’d Heaven. 

Yet  they  did  much.  Would  God  they 
had  torn  up  all 

By  the  hard  root,  which  shoots  again  ; 
our  trial 

Had  so  been  less;  but,  seeing  they 
were  men 

Defective  or  excessive,  must  we  fol- 
low 


774 


BECKET. 


All  that  they  overdid  or  underdid  ? 

Nay,  if  they  were  defective  as  St. 
Peter 

Denying  Christ,  who  yet  defied  the 
tyrant, 

We  hold  by  his  defiance,  not  his  de- 
fect. 

0 good  son  Louis,  do  not  counsel  me, 

No,  to  suppress  God’s  honor  for  the 

sake 

Of  any  king  that  breathes.  No,  God 
forbid ! 

Henry.  No  ! God  forbid ! and  turn 
me  Mussulman ! 

No  God  but  one,  and  Maliound  is  his 
prophet. 

But  for  your  Christian,  look  you,  you 
shall  have 

None  other  God  but  me — me,  Thomas, 
son 

Of  Gilbert  Becket,  London  merchant. 
Out! 

1 hear  no  more.  [Exit. 

Louis.  Our  brother’s  anger  puts 

him, 

Poor  man,  beside  himself  — not  wise. 
My  lord, 

We  have  claspt  your  cause,  believing 
that  our  brother 

Had  wrong’d  you;  but  this  day  he 
proffer’d  peace. 

You  will  have  war ; and  tho’  we  grant 
the  Church 

King  over  this  world’s  kings,  yet,  my 
good  lord, 

We  that  are  kings  are  something  in 
this  world, 

And  so  we  pray  you,  draw  yourself 
from  under 

The  wings  of  Prance.  We  shelter 
you  no  more.  [Exit. 

John  of  Oxford.  I am  glad  that 
Prance  hath  scouted  him  at 
last : 

I told  the  Pope  what  manner  of  man 
he  was.  [Exit. 

Roger  of  York.  Yea,  since  he  flouts 
the  will  of  either  realm, 

Let  either  cast  him  away  like  a dead 
dog!  [Exit. 

FoJiot.  Yea,  let  a stranger  spoil  his 
heritage, 


And  let  another  take  his  bishoprick  ! 

[Exit. 

De  Broc.  Our  castle,  my  lord,  be- 
longs to  Canterbury. 

I pray  you  come  and  take  it.  [Exit. 

Fitzurse.  When  you  will.  [Exit. 

Becket.  Cursed  be  John  of  Oxford, 
Roger  of  York, 

And  Gilbert  Foliot!  cursed  those  De 
Brocs 

That  hold  our  Saltwood  Castle  from 
our  see ! 

Cursed  Pitzurse,  and  all  the  rest  of 
them 

That  sow  this  hate  between  my  lord 
and  me ! 

Voices  from  the  Crowd.  Blessed  be 
the  Lord  Archbishop,  who  hath  with- 
stood two  Kings  to  their  faces  for  the 
honor  of  God. 

Becket.  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes 
and  sucklings,  praise  ! 

I thank  you,  sons ; when  kings  but 
hold  by  crowms, 

The  crowd  that  hungers  for  a crown 
in  Heaven 
Is  my  true  king. 

Herbert.  Thy  true  King  bade  thee  be 
A fisher  of  men;  thou  hast  them  in 
thy  net. 

Becket.  I am  too  like  the  King 
here  ; both  of  us 

Too  headlong  for  our  office.  Better 
have  been 

A fisherman  at  Bosham,  my  good 
Herbert, 

Thy  birthplace  — the  sea-creek  — the 
petty  rill 

That  falls  into  it  — the  green  field  — 
the  gray  church  — 

The  simple  lobster-basket,  and  the 
mesh  — 

The  more  or  less  of  daily  labor  done  — 
The  pretty  gaping  bills  in  the  home- 
nest 

Piping  for  bread  — the  daily  want 
supplied  — 

The  daily  pleasure  to  supply  it. 

Herbert.  Ah,  Thomas, 

You  had  not  borne  it,  no,  not  for  a 
day. 

Becket.  Well,  maybe,  no. 


BECHET. 


775 


Herbert.  But  bear  with  W alter  Map, 
For  here  he  comes  to  comment  on 
the  time. 

Enter  Walter  Map. 

Walter  Map.  Pity,  my  lord,  that 
you  have  quenched  the  warmth  of 
France  toward  you,  tho’  His  Holiness, 
after  much  smouldering  and  smoking, 
be  kindled  again  upon  your  quarter, 

Bechet.  Ay,  if  he  do  not  end  in 
smoke  again. 

Walter  Map.  My  lord,  the  fire, 
when  first  kindled,  said  to  the  smoke, 
“ Go  up,  my  sonj  straight  to  Heaven.” 
And  the  smoke  said,  “ I go  ” ; but 
anon  the  North-east  took  and  turned 
him  South-west,  then  the  South-west 
turned  him  North-east,  and  so  of  the 
other  winds ; but  it  was  in  him  to  go 
up  straight  if  the  -time  had  been 
quieter.  Your  lordship  affects  the 
unwavering  perpendicular;  but  His 
Holiness,  pushed  one  way  by  the  Em- 
pire and  another  by  England,  if  he 
move  at  all,  Heaven  stay  him,  is  fain 
to  diagonalize. 

Herbert.  Diagonalize ! thou  art  a 
word-monger  ! 

Our  Thomas  never  will  diagonalize. 
Thou  art  a jester  and  a verse-maker. 
Diagonalize ! 

Walter  Map.  Is  the  world  any  the 
worse  for  my  verses  if  the  Latin 
rhymes  be  rolled  out  from  a full 
mouth  ? or  any  harm  done  to  the 
people  if  my  jest  be  in  defence  of  the 
Truth  ? 

Bechet.  Ay,  if  the  jest  be  so  done 
that  the  people 

Delight  to  wallow  in  the  grossness  of  it, 
Till  Truth  herself  be  shamed  of  her 
defender. 

Non  defensoribus  istis,  Walter  Map. 

Walter  Map.  Is  that  my  case  1 so  if 
the  city  be  sick,  and  I cannot  call  the 
kennel  sweet,  your  lordship  would  sus- 
pend me  from  verse-writing,  as  you 
suspended  yourself  after  sub-writing 
to  the  customs. 

Bechet.  I pray  God  pardon  mine  in- 
firmity. 


Walter  Map.  Nay,  my  lord,  take 
heart;  for  tho’  you  suspended  yourself, 
the  Pope  let  you  down  again;  and  tho’ 
you  suspend  Foliot  or  another,  the 
Pope  will  not  leave  them  in  suspense, 
for  the  Pope  himself  is  always  in  sus- 
pense, like  Mahound’s  coffin  hung  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth  — always  in 
suspense,  like  the  scales,  till  the  weight 
of  Germany  or  the  gold  of  England 
brings  one  of  them  down  to  the  dust 

— always  in  suspense,  like  the  tail  of 
the  horologe  — to  and  fro  — tick-tack 

— we  make  the  time,  we  keep  the  time, 
ay,  and  we  serve  the  time ; for  I have 
heard  say  that  if  you  boxed  the  Pope’s 
ears  with  a purse,  you  might  stagger 
him,  but  he  would  pocket  the  purse. 
No  saying  of  mine  — Jocelyn  of  Salis- 
bury. But  the  King  hath  bought  half 
the  College  of  Redhats.  He  warmed 
to  you  to-day,  and  you  have  chilled 
him  again.  Yet  you  both  love  God. 
Agree  with  him  quickly  again,  even 
for  the  sake  of  the  Church.  My  one 
grain  of  good  counsel  which  you  will 
not  swallow.  I hate  a split  between 
old  friendships  as  I hate  the  dirty  gap 
in  the  face  of  a Cistercian  monk,  that 
will  swallow  any  tiling.  Farewell. 

[Exit. 

Bechet.  Map  scoffs  at  Rome.  I all 
but  hold  with  Map. 

Save  for  myself  no  Rome  were  left  in 
England, 

All  had  been  his.  Why  should  this 
Rome,  this  Rome, 

Still  choose  Barabbas  rather  than  the 
Christ, 

Absolve  the  left-hand  thief  and  damn 
the  right  ? 

Take  fees  of  tyranny,  wink  at  sacri- 
lege, 

Which  even  Peter  had  not  dared  ? 
condemn 

The  blameless  exile  ? — 

Herbert.  Thee,  thou  holy  Thomas  ! 
I would  that  thou  hadst  been  the  Holy 
Father. 

Bechet.  I would  have  done  my  most 
to  keep  Rome  holy, 


776 


BECKET. 


I would  have  made  Rome  know  she 
still  is  Rome  — 

Who  stands  aghast  at  her  eternal  self 

And  shakes  at  mortal  kings  — her 
vacillation, 

Avarice,  craft  — O God,  how  many  an 
innocent 

Has  left  his  bones  upon  the  way  to 
Rome 

Unwept,  uncared  for.  Yea  — on  mine 
own  self 

The  King  had  had  no  power  except 
for  Rome. 

’Tis  not  the  King  who  is  guilty  of 
mine  exile, 

But  Rome,  Rome,  Rome  ! 

Herbert.  My  lord,  I see  this  Louis 

Returning,  ah ! to  drive  thee  from  his 
realm. 

Becket.  He  said  as  much  before. 
Thou  art  no  prophet. 

Nor  yet  a prophet’s  son. 

Herbert.  Whatever  he  say, 

Deny  not  thou  God’s  honor  for  a king. 

The  King  looks  troubled. 

Re-enter  King  Louis. 

Louis.  My  dear  lord  Archbishop, 

I learn  but  now  that  those  poor  Poite- 
vins, 

That  in  thy  cause  were  stirr’d  against 
King  Henry, 

Have  been,  despite  his  kingly  promise 
given 

To  our  own  self  of  pardon,  evilly  used 

And  put  to  pain.  I have  lost  all  trust 
in  him. 

The  Church  alone  hath  eyes  — and 
now  I see 

That  I was  blind  — suffer  the  phrase 
— surrendering 

God’s  honor  to  the  pleasure  of  a man. 

Porgive  me  and  absolve  me,  holy 
father.  [ Kneels . 

Becket.  Son,  I absolve  thee  in  the 
name  of  God. 

Louis  (rising).  Return  to  Sens,  where 
we  will  care  for  you. 

The  wine  and  wealth  of  all  our  France 
are  yours ; 

Rest  in  our  realm,  and  be  at  peace 
with  all.  \_Exeunt. 


Voices  from  the  Crowd.  Long  live  the 
good  King  Louis ! God  bless  the 
great  Archbishop  ! 

Re-enter  Henry  and  John  of 
Oxford. 

Henri/  ( looking  after  King  Louis  and 
Becket).  Ay,  there  they  go  — 
both  backs  are  turn’d  to  me  — 
Why  then  I strike  into  my  former 
path 

For  England,  crown  young  Henry 
there,  and  make 

Our  waning  Eleanor  all  but  love  me  ! 

John, 

Thou  hast  served  me  heretofore  with 
Rome  — and  well. 

They  call  thee  John  the  Swearer. 

John  of  Oxford.  For  this  reason, 
That,  being  ever  duteous  to  the  King, 
I evermore  have  sworn  upon  his  side, 
And  ever  mean  to  do  it. 

Henry  ( claps  him  on  shoulder).  Honest 
John  ! 

To  Rome  again  ! the  storm  begins 
again. 

Spare  not  thy  tongue ! be  lavish  with 
our  coins, 

Threaten  our  junction  with  the  Em- 
peror — flatter 

And  fright  the  Pope  — bribe  all  the 
Cardinals  — leave 

Lateran  and  Vatican  in  one  dust  of 
gold  — 

Swear  and  unswear,  state  and  misstate 
thy  best  ! 

I go  to  have  young  Henry  crown’d  by 
York. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  — The  Bower. 

Henry  and  Rosamund. 

Henry.  All  that  you  say  is  just.  I 
cannot  answer  it 

Till  better  times,  when  I shall  put 
away 

Rosamund.  What  will  you  put 
away? 


BECKET. 


777 


Henry.  That  which  you  ask  me 

Till  better  times.  Let  it  content  you 
now 

There  is  no  woman  that  I love  so 
well. 

Rosamund.  No  woman  but  should 
be  content  with  that  — 

Henri/.  And  one  fair  child  to  fon- 
dle ! 

Rosamund.  0 yes,  the  child 

We  waited  for  so  long  — heaven’s  gift 
at  last  — 

And  how  you  doated  on  him  then  ! 
To-day 

I almost  fear’d  your  kiss  was  colder 

— yes  — 

But  then  the  child  is  such  a child. 
What  chance 

That  he  should  ever  spread  into  the 
man 

Here  in  our  silence  'i  I have  done  my 
best. 

I am  not  learn’d. 

Henry.  I am  the  King,  his  father, 

And  I will  look  to  it.  Is  our  secret 
ours  1 

Have  you  had  any  alarm1?  no  stranger? 

Rosamund.  No. 

The  warder  of  the  bower  hath  given 
himself 

Of  late  to  wine.  I sometimes  think 
he  sleeps 

When  he  should  watch  ; and  yet  what 
fear  % the  people 

Believe  the  wood  enchanted.  No  one 
comes, 

Nor  foe  nor  friend ; his  fond  excess  of 
wine 

Springs  from  the  loneliness  of  my 
poor  bower, 

Which  weighs  even  on  me. 

Henry.  Yet  these  tree-towers, 

Their  long  bird-echoing  minster-aisles, 

— the  voice 

Of  the  perpetual  brook,  these  golden 
slopes 

Of  Solomon-shaming  flowers  — that 
w^  your  saying, 

All  pleased  you  so  at  first. 

Rosamund.  Not  now  so  much. 

My  Anjou  bower  was  scarce  as  beau- 
tiful. 


But  you  were  oftener  there.  I have 
none  but  you. 

The  brook’s  voice  is  not  yours,  and  no 
flower,  not 

The  sun  himself,  should  he  be  changed 
to  one, 

Could  shine  away  the  darkness  of  that 
gap 

Left  by  the  lack  of  love. 

Henry.  The  lack  of  love  \ 

Rosamund.  Of  one  we  love.  Nay, 
I would  not  be  bold, 

Yet  hoped  ere  this  you  might 

[Looks  earnestly  at  him. 

Henry.  Anything  further  ? 

Rosamund.  Only  my  best  bower- 
maiden  died  of  late, 

And  that  old  priest  whom  John  of 
Salisbury  trusted 
Hath  sent  another. 

Henry.  Secret  ? 

Rosamund.  I but  ask’d  her 

One  question,  and  she  primm’d  her 
mouth  and  put 

Her  hands  together  — thus  — and  said, 
God  help  her, 

That  she  was  sworn  to  silence. 

Henry.  What  did  you  ask  her  % 

Rosamund.  Some  daily  something- 
nothing. 

Henry.  Secret,  then  1 

Rosamund.  I do  not  love  her.  Must 
you  go,  my  liege, 

So  suddenly  ? 

Henry.  I came  to  England  suddenly, 
And  on  a great  occasion  sure  to 
wake 

As  great  a wrath  in  Becket 

Rosamund.  Always  Becket ! 

He  always  comes  between  us. 

Henry.  — And  to  meet  it 

I needs  must  leave  as  suddenly.  It  is 
raining, 

Put  on  your  hood  and  see  me  to  the 
bounds.  [ Exeunt . 

Margery  ( singing  behind  scene). 

Babble  in  bower 
Under  the  rose ! 

Bee  mustn’t  buzz, 

Whoop  — but  he  knows. 


778 


BECKET. 


Kiss  me,  little  one, 

Nobody  near ! 

Grasshopper,  grasshopper, 

Whoop  — you  can  hear. 

Kiss  in  the  bower, 

Tit  on  the  tree  ! 

Bird  mustn’t  tell, 

Whoop  — he  can  see. 

Enter  Margery. 

I ha’  been  but  a week  here  and  I ha’ 
seen  wdiat  I ha’  seen,  for  to  be  sure  it’s 
no  more  than  a week  since  our  old 
Bather  Philip  that  has  confessed  our 
mother  for  twenty  years,  and  she  was 
hard  put  to  it,  and  to  speak  truth, 
nigh  at  the  end  of  our  last  crust,  and 
that  mouldy,  and  she  cried  out  to  him 
to  put  me  forth  in  the  world  and  to 
make  me  a woman  of  the  world,  and 
to  win  my  own  bread,  whereupon  he 
asked  our  mother  if  I could  keep  a 
quiet  tongue  i’  my  head,  and  not  speak 
till  I was  spoke  to,  and  1 answered  for 
myself  that  I never  spoke  more  than 
was  needed,  and  he  told  me  he  would 
advance  me  to  the  service  of  a great 
lady,  and  took  me  ever  so  far  away, 
and  gave  me  a great  pat  o’  the  cheek 
for  a pretty  wench,  and  said  it  was  a 
pity  to  blindfold  such  eyes  as  mine, 
and  such  to  be  sure  they  be,  but  he 
blinded  ’em  for  all  that,  and  so  brought 
me  no-hows  as  I may  say,  and  the  more 
shame  to  him  after  his  promise,  into 
a garden  and  not  into  the  world,  and 
bade  me  whatever  I saw  not  to  speak 
one  word,  an’  it  ’ud  be  well  for  me  in 
the  end,  for  there  were  great  ones  who 
would  look  after  me,  and  to  be  sure  I 
ha’  seen  great  ones  to-day  — and  then 
not  to  speak  one  word,  for  that’s  the 
rule  o’  the  garden,  tho’  to  be  sure  if  I 
had  been  Eve  i’  the  garden  I shouldn’t 
ha’  minded  the  apple,  for  what’s  an 
apple,  you  know,  save  to  a child,  and 
I’m  no  child,  but  more  a woman  o’  the 
wmrld  than  my  lady  here,  and  I ha’ 
seen  what  I ha’  seen  — tho’  to  be  sure 
if  I hadn’t  minded  it  we  should  all  on 
us  ha’  had  to  go,  bless  the  Saints,  wi’ 


bare  backs,  but  the  backs  ’ud  ha’  coun- 
tenanced one  another,  and  belike  it  ’ud 
ha’  been  always  summer,  and  anyhow 
I am  as  well-shaped  as  my  lady  here, 
and  I ha’  seen  what  I ha’  seen,  and 
what’s  the  good  of  my  talking  to  my- 
self, for  here  comes  my  lady  ( enter 
Rosamund),  and,  my  lady,  tho’  I 
shouldn’t  speak  one  word,  I wish  you 
joy  o’  the  King’s  brother. 

Rosamund.  What  is  it  you  mean? 

Margery.  I mean  your  goodman, 
your  husband,  my  lady,  for  I saw  your 
ladyship  a-parting  wi’  him  even  now 
i’  the  coppice,  when  I was  a-getting  o’ 
bluebells  for  your  ladyship’s  nose  to 
smell  on — and  I ha’  seen  the  King 
once  at  Oxford,  and  he’s  as  like  the 
King  as  fingernail  to  fingernail,  and  I 
thought  at  first  it  was  the  King,  only 
you  know  the  King’s  married,  for  King 
Louis 

Rosamund.  Married ! 

Margery.  Y ears  and  years,  my  lady, 
for  her  husband,  King  Louis 

Rosamund.  Hush  ! 

Margery.  — And  I thought  if  it  were 
the  King’s  brother  he  had  a better 
bride  than  the  King,  for  the  people  do 
say  that  his  is  bad  beyond  all  reckon- 
ing, and 

Rosamund.  The  people  lie. 

Margery.  Very  like,  my  lady,  but 
most  on  ’em  know  an  honest  woman 
and  a lady  when  they  see  her,  and  be- 
sides they  say,  she  makes  songs,  and 
that’s  against  her,  for  I never  knew  an 
honest  woman  that  could  make  songs, 
tho’  to  be  sure  our  mother  ’ill  sing  me 
old  songs  by  the  hour,  but  then,  God 
help  her,  she  had ’em  from  her  mother, 
and  her  mother  from  her  mother  back 
and  back  for  ever  so  long,  but  none 
on  ’em  ever  made  songs,  and  they  were 
all  honest. 

Rosamund.  Go,  you  shall  tell  me  of 
her  some  other  time. 

Margery.  There’s  none  so  much  to 
tell  on  her,  my  lady,  only  she  kept  the 
seventh  commandment  better  than 
some  I know  on,  or  I couldn’t  look 
your  ladyship  i’  the  face,  and  she  brew’d 


BECKET. 


779 


the  best  ale  in  all  Glo’ster,that  is  to  say 
in  her  time  when  she  had  the  “ Crown.” 

Rosamund.  The  crown ! who  ? 

Margery.  Mother. 

Rosamund.  I mean  her  whom  you 
call  — fancy  — my  husband’s  brother’s 
wife. 

Margery.  Oh,  Queen  Eleanor.  Yes, 
my  lady ; and  tho’  I be  sworn  not  to 
speak  a word,  I can  tell  you  all  about 
her,  if 

Rosamund.  No  word  now.  I am 
faint  and  sleepy.  Leave  me. 
Nay  — go.  What ! will  you  anger  me. 

[Exit  Margery. 
He  charged  me  not  to  question  any  of 
those 

A.boutme.  Havel?  no!  she  question’d 
me. 

Did  she  not  slander  him  ? Should  she 
stay  here  ? 

May  she  not  tempt  me,  being  at  my 
side, 

To  question  her  ? Nay,  can  I send  her 
hence 

Without  his  kingly  leave  ! I am  in 
the  dark. 

I have  lived,  poor  bird,  from  cage  to 
cage,  and  known 

Nothing  but  him  — happy  to  know  no 
more, 

So  that  he  loved  me  — and  he  loves 
me  — yes, 

And  bound  me  by  his  love  to  secrecy 
Till  his  own  time. 

Eleanor,  Eleanor,  have  I 
Not  heard  ill  things  of  her  in  France  ? 
Oh,  she’s 

The  Queen  of  France.  I see  it  — some 
confusion, 

Some  strange  mistake.  I did  not  hear 
aright, 

Myself  confused  with  parting  from  the 
King. 

Margery  ( behind  scene). 

Bee  mustn’t  buzz, 

Whoop  — but  he  knows. 

Rosamund.  Yet  her  — what  her?  he 
hinted  of  some  her  — 

When  he  was  here  before  — 
Something  that  would  displease  me. 
Hath  he  stray’d 


From  love’s  clear  path  into  the  com- 
mon bush, 

And,  being  scratch’d,  returns  to  his 
true  rose, 

Who  hath  not  thorn  enough  to  prick 
him  for  it, 

Ev’n  with  a word  ? 

Margery  ( behind  scene). 

Bird  mustn’t  tell, 

Whoop  — he  can  see. 

Rosamund.  I would  not  hear  him. 
Nay — there’s  more — he  frown’d 

“ No  mate  for  her,  if  it  should  como 
to  that  ” — 

To  that  — to  what  ? 

Margery  ( behind  scene). 

Whoop  — but  he  knows, 
Whoop  — but  lie  knows. 

Rosamund.  O God ! some  dreadful 
truth  is  breaking  on  me  — 

Some  dreadful  thing  is  coming  on  me. 

Enter  Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey ! 

Geoffrey.  What  are  you  crying  for, 
when  the  sun  shines  ? 

Rosamund.  Hath  not  thy  father  left 
us  to  ourselves  ? 

Geoffrey.  Ay,  but  he’s  taken  the 
rain  with  him.  I hear  Margery : 
I’ll  go  play  with  her. 

[Exit  Geoffrey. 

Rosamund.  Rainbow,  stay, 

Gleam  upon  gloom, 

Bright  as  my  dream, 
Rainbow,  stay  ! 

But  it  passes  away, 

Gloom  upon  gleam, 

Dark  as  my  doom  — 

O rainbow,  stay. 

SCENE  II.  — Outside  the  Woods 
near  Rosamund’s  Bower. 

Eleanor.  Fitzurse. 

Eleanor.  Up  from  the  salt  lips  of 
the  land  we  two 

Have  track’d  the  King  to  this  dark 
inland  wood ; 

And  somewhere  hereabouts  he  vaa 
ish’d.  Here 


780 


BECKET : 


His  turtle  builds : his  exit  is  our 
adit : 

Watch ! he  will  out  again,  and  pres- 
ently, 

Seeing  he  must  to  Westminster  and 
crown 

Young  Henry  there  to-morrow. 

Fitzurse.  We  have  watch'd 

So  long  in  vain,  he  hath  pass’d  out 
again, 

And  on  the  other  side. 

[ A great  horn  winded. 

Hark ! Madam ! 

Eleanor.  Ah, 

How  ghostly  sounds  that  horn  in  the 
back  wood ! 

[ A countryman  flying. 
Whither  away,  man  \ what  are  you 
flying  from  \ 

Countryman.  The  witch ! the  witch  ! 
she  sits  naked  by  a great  heap  of 
gold  in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  and 
when  the  horn  sounds  she  comes  out 
as  a wolf.  Get  you  hence  ! a man 
passed  in  there  to-day:  I holla’d  to 
him,  but  he  didn’t  hear  me : he’ll 
never  out  again,  the  witch  has  got 
him.  I daren’t  stay  — I daren’t  stay  ! 

Eleanor.  Kind  of  the  witch  to  give 
thee  warning  tho’.  [ Man  flies. 
Is  not  this  wood-witch  of  the  rustic’s 
fear 

Our  woodland  Circe  that  hath  witch’d 
the  King  'l 

{ Horn  sounded.  Another  flying. 

Fitzurse.  Again!  stay, fool,  and  tell 
me  why  thou  fliest. 

Countryman.  Fly  thou  too.  The 
King  keeps  his  forest  head  of  game 
here,  and  when  that  horn  sounds,  a 
score  of  wolf-dogs  are  let  loose  that 
will  tear  thee  piecemeal.  Linger  not 
till  the  third  horn.  Fly ! {Exit. 

Eleanor .,  This  is  the  likelier  tale. 
We  have  hit  the  place. 

Now  let  the  King’s  fine  game  look  to 
itself.  {Horn. 

Fitzurse.  Again  ! — 

And  far  on  in  the  dark  heart  of  the 
wood 

I hear  the  yelping  of  the  hounds  of 
hell. 


Eleanor.  I have  my  dagger  here  to 
still  their  throats. 

Fitzurse.  Nay,  Madam,  not  to-night 
— the  night  is  falling. 

What  can  be  done  to-night  ? 

Eleanor.  W ell  — well  — away. 


SCENE  III.  — Traitor’s  Meadow’ 
at  Freteval.  Pavilions  and 
Tents  of  the  English  and 
French  Baronage. 

Becket  and  Herbert  of  Bosiiam. 

Bechet.  See  here  ! 

Herbert.  What’s  here  1 

Becket.  A notice  from  the  priest, 

To  whom  our  John  of  Salisbury  com- 
mitted 

The  secret  of  the  bower,  that  our 
wolf-Queen 

Is  prowling  round  the  fold.  I should 
be  back 

In  England  ev’n  for  this. 

Herbert.  These  are  by-things 

In  the  great  cause. 

Becket.  The  by-things  of  the  Lord 

Are  the  wrong’d  innocences  that  will 
cry 

From  all  the  hidden  by-ways  of  the 
world 

In  the  great  day  against  the  wronger. 
I know 

Thy  meaning.  Perish  she,  I,  all,  be- 
fore 

The  Church  should  suffer  wrong ! 
Herbert.  Do  you  see,  my  lord, 

There  is  the  King  talking  with  Wal- 
ter Map  1 

Becket.  He  hath  the  Pope’s  last  let- 
ters, and  they  threaten 

The  immediate  thunder-blast  of  inter- 
dict : 

Yet  he  can  scarce  be  touching  upon 
those, 

Or  scarce  would  smile  that  fashion. 
Herbert.  Winter  sunshine  ! 

Beware  of  opening  out  thy  bosom  to  it, 

Lest  thou,  myself,  and  all  thy  flock 
should  catch 

An  after  ague-fit  of  trembling.  Look ! 


BECKET. 


781 


He  bows,  he  bares  his  head,  he  is 
coming  hither, 

Still  with  a smile. 

Enter  King  Henry  and  Walter 
Map. 

Henry.  We  have  had  so  many  hours 
together,  Thomas, 

So  many  happy  hours  alone  together, 
That  I would  speak  with  you  once 
more  alone. 

Bechet.  My  liege,  your  will  and 
happiness  are  mine. 

[. Exeunt  King  and  Becket. 

Herbert.  The  same  smile  still. 

Walter  Map.  Do  you  see  that  great 
black  cloud  that  hath  come  over  the 
sun  and  cast  us  all  into  shadow  1 

Herbert.  And  feel  it  too. 

Walter  Map.  And  see  you  yon  side- 
beam  that  is  forced  from  under  it, 
and  sets  the  church-tower  over  there 
all  a-hell-fire  as  it  were  2. 

Herbert.  Ay. 

Walter  Map.  It  is  this  black,  bell- 
silencing,  anti-marrying,  burial-hin- 
dering interdict  that  hath  squeezed 
out  this  side-smile  upon  Canterbury, 
whereof  may  come  conflagration. 
Were  I Thomas,  I wouldn’t  trust  it. 
Sudden  change  is  a house  on  sand  ; 
and  tho’  I count  Henry  honest  enough, 
yet  when  fear  creeps  in  at  the  front, 
honesty  steals  out  at  the  back,  and 
the  King  at  last  is  fairly  scared  by 
by  this  cloud  — this  interdict.  I have 
been  more  for  the  King  than  the 
Church  in  this  matter  — yea,  even  for 
the  sake  of  the  Church  : for,  truly,  as 
the  case  stood,  you  had  safelier  have 
slain  an  archbishop  than  a she-goat : 
but  our  recoverer  and  upholder  of  cus- 
toms hath  in  this  crowning  of  young 
Henry  by  Y ork  and  London  so  violated 
the  immemorial  usage  of  the  Church, 
that, like  the  gravedigger’s  child  Ihave 
heard  of,  trying  to  ring  the  bell,  he 
hath  half-hanged  himself  in  the  rope 
of  the  Church,  or  rather  pulled  all 
the  Church  with  the  Holy  Father 
astride  of  it  down  upon  his  own  head. 


Herbert.  Were  you  there  'l 

Walter  Map.  In  the  church  rope  1 
— no.  I was  at  the  crowning,  for  I 
have  pleasure  in  the  pleasure  of 
crowds,  and  to  read  the  faces  of  men 
at  a great  show. 

Herbert.  And  how  did  Roger  of 
York  comport  himself  ? 

Water  Map.  As  magnificently  and 
archiepiscopally  as  our  Thomas  would 
have  done : only  there  was  a dare- 
devil in  his  eye — I should  say  a dare- 
Becket.  He  thought  less  of  two 
kings  than  of  one  Roger  the  king  of 
the  occasion.  Foliot  is  the  holier 
man,  perhaps  the  better.  Once  or 
twice  there  ran  a twitch  across  his 
face  as  who  should  say  what’s  to  fol- 
low ? but  Salisbury  was  a calf  cowed 
by  Mother  Church,  and  every  now 
and  then  glancing  about  him  like  a 
thief  at  night  when  he  hears  a door 
open  in  the  house  and  thinks  “ the 
master.” 

Herbert.  And  the  father-king  ? 

Walter  Map.  The  father’s  eye  was 
so  tender  it  would  have  called  a goose 
off  the  green,  and  once  he  strove  to 
hide  his  face,  like  the  Greek  king 
when  his  daughter  was  sacrificed,  but 
he  thought  better  of  it : it  was  but 
the  sacrifice  of  a kingdom  to  his  son, 
a smaller  matter;  but  as  to  the  young 
crownling  himself,  he  looked  so  mala- 
pert in  the  eyes,  that  had  I fathered 
him  I had  given  him  more  of  the  rod 
than  the  sceptre.  Then  followed  the 
thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shout- 
ing, and  so  we  came  on  to  the  ban- 
quet, from  whence  there  puffed  out 
such  an  incense  of  unctuosity  into 
the  nostrils  of  our  Gods  of  Church 
and  State,  that  Lucullus  or  Apicius 
might  have  sniffed  it  in  their  Hades 
of  heathenism,  so  that  the  smell  of 
their  own  roast  had  not  come  across 

Herbert.  Map,  tho’  you  make  your 
butt  too  big,  you  overshoot  it. 

W alter  Map.  — For  as  to  the  fish, 
they  de-miracled  the  miraculous 


782 


BECKET. 


draught,  and  might  have  sunk  a 
navy 

Herbert.  There  again,  Goliasing  and 
Goliathising ! 

Walter  Map.  ■ — - And  as  for  the  flesh 
at  table,  a whole  Peter’s  sheet,  with  all 
manner  of  game,  and  four-footed 
things,  and  fowls  — — 

Herbert.  And  all  manner  of  creep- 
ing things  too 

Walter  Map.  — Well,  there  were 
Abbots  — but  they  did  not  bring  their 
women ; and  so  we  were  dull  enough 
at  flrst,  but  in  the  end  we  flourished 
out  into  a merriment ; for  the  old 
King  would  act  servitor  and  hand  a 
dish  to  his  son  ; whereupon  my  Lord 
of  York — his  fine-cut  face  bowing 
and  beaming  with  all  that  courtesy 
which  hath  less  loyalty  in  it  than  the 
backward  scrape  of  the  clown’s  heel 

— “ great  honor,”  says  he,  “ from  the 
King’s  self  to  the  King’s  son.”  Did 
you  hear  the  young  King’s  quip  1 

Herbert.  No,  what  was  it  ? 

Walter  Map.  Glancing  at  the  days 
when  his  father  was  only  Earl  of 
Anjou,  he  answered:  — “Should  not 
an  earl’s  son  wait  on  a king’s  son  1 ” 
And  when  the  cold  corners  of  the 
King’s  mouth  began  to  thaw,  there 
was  a great  motion  of  laughter  among 
us,  part  real,  part  childlike,  to  be 
freed  from  the  dulness  — part  royal, 
for  King  and  kingling  both  laughed, 
and  so  we  could  not  but  laugh,  as  by 
a royal  necessity  — part  childlike  again 

— when  we  felt  we  had  laughed  too 
long  and  could  not  stay  ourselves  — 
many  midriff-shaken  even  to  tears,  as 
springs  gush  out  after  earthquakes  — 
but  from  those,  as  I said  before,  there 
may  come  a conflagration  — tho’,  to 
keep  the  figure  moist  and  make  it  hold 
water,  I should  say  rather,  the  lacry- 
mation  of  a lamentation ; but  look  if 
Thomas  have  not  flung  himself  at  the 
King’s  feet.  They  have  made  it  up 
again  — for  the  moment. 

Herbert.  Thanks  to  the  blessed 
Magdalen,  whose  day  it  is. 


Re-enter  Henry  and  Becket.  ( Dur- 
ing their  conference  the  Barons  and 

Bishops  of  France  and  England 

come  in  at  back  of  stage.) 

Becket.  Ay,  King ! for  in  thy  king- 
dom, as  thou  knowest, 

The  spouse  of  the  Great  King,  thy 
King,  hath  fallen  — 

The  daughter  of  Zion  lies  beside  the 
way— 

The  priests  of  Baal  tread  her  under- 
foot— 

The  golden  ornaments  are  stolen  from 
her* 

Henry.  Have  I not  promised  to  re- 
store her,  Thomas, 

And  send  thee  back  again  to  Canter- 
bury ? 

Becket.  Send  back  again  those  exiles 
of  my  kin 

Who  wander  famine-wasted  thro’  the 
world. 

Henry.  Have  I not  promised,  man, 
to  send  them  back  ? 

Becket.  Yet  one  thing  more.  Thou 
hast  broken  thro’  the  pales 

Of  privilege,  crowning  thy  young  son 
by  York, 

London  and  Salisbury  — not  Canter- 
bury. 

Henry.  York  crown’d  the  Conqueror 
— not  Canterbury. 

Becket.  There  was  no  Canterbury  in 
William’s  time. 

Henry.  But  Hereford,  you  know, 
crown’d  the  first  Henry. 

Becket.  But  Anselm  crown’d  this 
Henry  o’er  again. 

Henry.  And  thou  shalt  crown  my 
Henry  o’er  again. 

Becket.  And  is  it  then  with  thy  good- 
will that  I 

Proceed  against  thine  evil  councillors, 

And  hurl  the  dread  ban  of  the  Church 
on  those 

Who  made  the  second  mitre  play  the 
first, 

And  acted  me  'i 

Henry.  W ell,  well,  then  — have  thy 
way ! 

It  may  be  they  were  evil  councillors. 


BECKET. 


783 


What  more,  my  lord  Archbishop  ? 
What  more,  Thomas  ? 

I make  thee  full  amends.  Say  all 
thy  say, 

But  blaze  not  out  before  the  French- 
men here. 

Bechet . More  ? Nothing,  so  thy 
promise  be  thy  deed. 

Henry  ( holding  out  his  hand).  Give 
me  thy  hand.  My  Lords  of 
France  and  England, 

My  friend  of  Canterbury  and  my- 
self 

Are  now  once  more  at  perfect  amity. 

Unkingly  should  I be,  and  most  un- 
knightly, 

Not  striving  still,  however  much  in 
vain, 

To  rival  him  in  Christian  charity. 

Herbert.  All  praise  to  Heaven,  and 
sweet  St.  Magdalen ! 

Henry.  And  so  farewell  until  we 
meet  in  England. 

Bechet.  I fear,  my  liege,  we  may  not 
meet  in  England. 

Henry.  How,  do  you  make  me  a 
traitor  ? 

Bechet.  No,  indeed ! 

That  be  far  from  thee. 

Henry.  Come,  stay  with  us,  then, 

Before  you  part  for  England. 

Bechet.  I am  bound 

For  that  one  hour  to  stay  with  good 
King  Louis, 

Who  helpt  me  when  none  else. 

Herbert.  He  said  thy  life 

Was  not  one  hour’s  worth  in  England 
save 

King  Henry  gave  thee  first  the  kiss  of 
peace. 

Henry.  He  said  so  ? Louis,  did  he? 
look  you,  Herbert. 

When  I was  in  mine  anger  with  King 
Louis, 

I sware  I would  not  give  the  kiss  of 
peace, 

Not  on  French  ground,  nor  any  ground 
but  English, 

Where  his  cathedral  stands.  Mine 
old  friend,  Thomas, 

I would  there  were  that  perfect  trust 
between  us, 


That  health  of  heart,  once  ours,  ere 
Pope  or  King 

Had  come  between  us  ! Even  now  — 
who  knows  ? — 

I might  deliver  all  things  to  thy  hand  — 
If  . . . but  I say  no  more  . . . fare- 
well, my  lord. 

Bechet.  Farewell,  my  liege  ! 

[Exit  Henry,  then  the  Barons  and 
Bishops. 

Walter  Map.  There  again!  when  the 
full  fruit  of  the  royal  promise  might 
have  dropt  into  thy  mouth  hadst  thou 
but  opened  it  to  thank  him. 

Bechet.  He  fenced  his  royal  promise 
with  an  if. 

Walter  Map.  And  is  the  King’s  {/too 
high  a stile  for  your  lordship  to  over- 
step and  come  at  all  things  in  the  next 
field? 

Bechet.  Ay,  if  this  if  be  like  the 
Devil’s  “ if 

Thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me.” 

Herbert.  Oh,  Thomas, 

I could  fall  down  and  worship  thee, 
my  Thomas, 

For  thou  hast  trodden  this  wine-press 
alone. 

Bechet.  Nay,  of  the  people  there  are 
many  with  me. 

Walter  Map.  I am  not  altogether 
with  you,  my  lord,  tho’  I am  none  of 
those  that  would  raise  a storm  between 
you,  lest  ye  should  draw  together  like 
two  ships  in  a calm.  You  wrong  the 
King : he  meant  what  he  said  to-day. 
AVho  shall  vouch  for  his  to-morrows  ? 
One  word  further.  Doth  not  the  few- 
ness of  anything  make  the  fulness  of 
it  in  estimation  ? Is  not  virtue  prized 
mainly  for  its  rarity  and  great  base- 
ness loathed  as  an  exception  : for  were 
all,  my  lord,  as  noble  as  yourself,  who 
would  look  up  to  you  ? and  were  all 
as  base  as — who  shall  I say  — Fitzurse 
and  his  following — who  would  look 
down  upon  them  ? My  lord,  you  have 
put  so  many  of  the  King’s  household 
out  of  communion,  that  they  begin  to 
smile  at  it. 

Bechet.  At  their  peril,  at  their 
peril 


7S4 


BECKET. 


Walter  Map.  — For  tho’  the  drop 
may  hollow  out  the  dead  stone,  doth 
not  the  living  skin  thicken  against 
perpetual  whippings  ? This  is  the 
second  grain  of  good  counsel  I ever 
proffered  thee,  and  so  cannot  suffer 
by  the  rule  of  frequency.  Have  I 
sown  it  in  salt”?  I trust  not,  for  be- 
fore God  I promise  you  the  King 
hath  many  more  wolves  than  he  can 
tame  in  his  woods  of  England,  and  if 
it  suit  their  purpose  to  howl  for  the 
King,  and  you  still  move  against  him, 
you  may  have  no  less  than  to  die  for 
it ; but  God  and  his  free  wind  grant 
your  lordship  a happy  home-return 
and  the  King’s  kiss  of  peace  in  Kent. 
Farewell ! I must  follow  the  King. 

[Exit. 

Herbert.  Ay,  and  I warrant  the 
customs.  Did  the  King 
Speak  of  the  customs  ? 

Beclcet.  No  ! — to  die  for  it  — 

I live  to  die  for  it,  I die  to  live  for  it. 
The  State  will  die,  the  Church  can 
never  die. 

The  King’s  not  like  to  die  for  that 
which  dies; 

But  I must  die  for  that  which  never 
dies. 

It  will  be  so  — my  visions  in  the 
Lord  : 

It  must  be  so,  my  friend ! the  wolves 
of  England 

Must  murder  her  one  shepherd,  that 
the  sheep 

May  feed  in  peace.  False  figure,  Map 
would  say. 

Earth’s  falses  are  heaven’s  truths. 

And  when  my  voice 
Is  martyr’d  mute,  and  this  man  dis- 
appears, 

That  perfect  trust  may  come  again 
between  us, 

And  there,  there,  there,  not  here  I 
shall  rejoice 

To  find  my  stray  sheep  back  within 
the  fold. 

The  crowd  are  scattering,  let  us  move 
away ! 

And  thence  to  England.  [ Exeunt . 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  — The  Outskirts  of  the 
Bower. 

Geoffrey  ( coming  out  of  the  wood). 
Light  again ! light  again  ! Margery  ? 
no,  that’s  a finer  thing  there.  How 
it  glitters ! 

Eleanor  [entering).  Come  to  me, little 
one.  How  earnest  thou  hither  ? 

Geoffrey.  On  my  legs. 

Eleanor.  And  mighty  pretty  legs 
too.  Thou  art  the  prettiest  child  I 
ever  saw.  Wilt  thou  love  me? 

Geoffrey.  No  ; I only  love  mother. 

Eleanor.  Ay;  andwhois  thy  mother? 

Geoffrey.  They  call  her But 

she  lives  secret,  you  see. 

Eleanor.  Why  ? 

Geoffrey.  Don’t  know  why. 

Eleanor.  Ay,  but  some  one  comes 
to  see  her  now  and  then.  Who  is  he  ? 

Geoffrey.  Can’t  tell. 

Eleanor.  What  does  she  call  him  ? 

Geoffrey.  My  liege. 

Eleanor.  Pretty  one,  how  earnest 
thou  ? 

Geoffrey.  There  was  a bit  of  yellow 
silk  here  and  there,  and  it  looked 
pretty  like  a glowworm,  and  I thought 
if  I followed  it  I should  find  the  fairies. 

Eleanor.  I am  the  fairy,  pretty  one, 
a good  fairy  to  thy  mother.  Take  me 
to  her. 

Geoffrey.  There  are  good  fairies 
and  bad  fairies,  and  sometimes  she 
cries,  and  can’t  sleep  sound  o’  nights 
because  of  the  bad  fairies. 

Eleanor.  She  shall  cry  no  more; 
she  shall  sleep  sound  enough  if  thou 
wilt  take  me  to  her.  I am  her  good 
fairy. 

Geoffrey.  But  you  don’t  look  like  a 
good  fairy.  Mother  does.  You  are 
not  pretty,  like  mother. 

Eleanor.  We  can’t  all  of  us  be  as 
pretty  as  thou  art — (aside)  little  bas- 
tard. Come,  here  is  a golden  chain  I 
will  give  thee  if  thou  wilt  lead  me  to 
thy  mother. 

Geoffrey.  No  — no  gold.  Mother 


BECKET. 


785 


says  gold  spoils  all.  Love  is  the  only 
gold. 

Eleanor.  I love  thy  mother,  my 
pretty  boy.  Show  me  where  thou 
earnest  out  of  the  wood. 

Geoffrey.  By  this  tree;  but  I don’t 
know  if  I can  find  the  way  back  again. 

Eleanor.  Where’s  the  warder  ? 

Geoffrey.  Very  bad.  Somebody 
struck  him. 

Eleanor.  Ay  ? who  was  that  ? 

Geoffrey.  Can’t  tell.  But  I heard 
say  he  had  had  a stroke,  or  you’d 
have  heard  his  horn  before  now. 
Come  along,  then ; we  shall  see  the 
silk  here  and  there,  and  I want  my 
supper.  [ Exeunt . 


SCENE  II.  — Rosamund’s  Bower. 

Rosamund.  The  boy  so  late ; pray 
God,  he  be  not  lost. 

I sent  this  Margery,  and  she  comes 
not  back; 

I sent  another,  and  she  comes  not 
back. 

I go  myself  — so  many  alleys,  cross- 
ings, 

Paths,  avenues  — nay,  if  I lost  him, 
now 

The  folds  have  fallen  from  the  mys- 
tery, 

And  left  all  naked,  I were  lost  indeed. 

Enter  Geoffrey  and  Eleanor. 

Geoffrey,  the  pain  thou  hast  put  me  to ! 

[ Seeing  Eleanor. 

Ha,  you! 

How  came  you  hither  ? 

Eleanor.  Your  own  child  brought 
me  hither ! 

Geoffrey.  You  said  you  couldn’t 
trust  Margery,  and  I watched  her  and 
followed  her  into  the  woods,  and  I lost 
her  and  went  on  and  on  till  I found 
the  light  and  the  lady,  and  she  says 
she  can  make  you  sleep  o’  nights. 

Rosamund.  How  dared  you  ? Know 
you  not  this  bower  is  secret, 

Of  and  belonging  to  the  King  of  Eng- 
land, 


More  sacred  than  his  forests  for  the 
chase  '? 

Nay,  nay,  Heaven  help  you ; get  you 
hence  in  haste 
Lest  worse  befall  you. 

Eleanor.  Child,  I am  mine  own  self 
Of  andbelongingtotheKing.  The  King 
Hath  divers  ofs  and  ons,  ofs  and  be- 
longings, 

Almost  as  many  as  your  true  Mussul- 
man — 

Belongings,  paramours,  whom  it 
pleases  him 

To  call  his  wives ; but  so  it  chances, 
child, 

That  I am  his  main  paramour,  his 
sultana. 

But  since  the  fondest  pair  of  doves 
will  jar, 

Ev’n  in  a cage  of  gold,  we  had  words 
of  late, 

And  thereupon  he  call’d  my  children 
bastards. 

Do  you  believe  that  you  are  married 
to  him  ? 

Rosamund.  I should  believe  it. 

Eleanor.  You  must  not  believe  it, 
Because  I have  a wholesome  medicine 
here 

Puts  that  belief  asleep.  Your  answer, 
beauty ! 

Do  you  believe  that  you  are  marrried 
to  him'? 

Rosamund.  Geoffrey,  my  boy,  I 
saw  the  ball  you  lost  in  the  fork  of 
the  great  willow  over  the  brook.  Go. 
See  that  you  do  not  fall  in.  Go. 

Geoffrey.  And  leave  you  alone  with 
the  good  fairy.  She  calls  you  beauty, 
but  I don’t  like  her  looks.  Well,  you 
bid  me  go,  and  I’ll  have  my  ball  any- 
how. Shall  I find  you  asleep  when  I 
come  back  1 

Rosamund.  Go.  [Exit  Geoffrey. 

Eleanor.  He  is  easily  found  again. 
Do  you  believe  it  ? 

I pray  you  then  to  take  my  sleeping- 
draught  ; 

But  if  you  should  not  care  to  take  it 
— see  ! [Draws  a dagger. 

What ! have  I scared  the  red  rose 
from  your  face 


786 


BECKET. 


Into  your  heart.  But  this  will  find  it 
there, 

And  dig  it  from  the  root  for  ever. 

Rosamund.  Help ! help  ! 

Eleanor.  They  say  that  walls  have 
ears;  but  these,  it  seems, 

Have  none  ! and  I have  none  — to 
pity  thee. 

Rosamund.  I do  beseech  you  — my 
child  is  so  young, 

So  backward  too ; I cannot  leave  him 
yet. 

I am  not  so  happy  I could  not  die  my- 
self, 

But  the  child  is  so  young.  You  have 
children  — his  ; 

And  mine  is  the  King’s  child ; so,  if 
you  love  him  — 

Nay,  if  you  love  him,  there  is  great 
wrong  done 

Somehow  ; but  if  you  do  not  — there 
are  those 

Who  say  you  do  not  love  him  — let 
me  go 

With  my  young  boy,  and  I will  hide 
my  face, 

Blacken  and  gipsyfy  it ; none  shall 
know  me ; 

The  King  shall  never  hear  of  me 
again, 

But  I will  beg  my  bread  along  the 
world 

With  my  young  boy,  and  God  will  be 
our  guide. 

I never  meant  you  harm  in  any  way. 

See,  I can  say  no  more. 

Eleanor.  Will  you  notsay  you  arenot 
married  to  him  ? 

Rosamund.  Ay,  Madam,  I can  say 
it,  if  you  will. 

Eleanor.  Then  is  thy  pretty  boy  a 
bastard  'l 

Rosamund.  No. 

Eleanor.  And  thou  thyself  a proven 
wanton  ? 

Rosamund.  No. 

I am  none  such.  I never  loved  but 
one. 

I have  heard  of  such  that  range  from 
love  to  love, 

Like  the  wild  beast  — if  you  can  call 
it  love. 


I have  heard  of  such  — yea,  even 
among  those 

Who  sit  on  thrones  — I never  saw  any 
such, 

Never  knew  any  such,  and  howsoever 
You  do  misname  me,  match’d  with  any 
such, 

I am  snow  to  mud. 

Eleanor.  The  more  the  pity  then 
That  thy  true  home  — the  heavens  — . 

cry  out  for  thee 
Who  art  too  pure  for  earth. 

Enter  Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse.  Give  her  to  me. 

Eleanor.  The  Judas-lover  of  our 
passion-play 
Hath  track’d  us  hither. 

Fitzurse.  Well,  why  not  ? I follow’d 
You  and  the  child  : he  babbled  all  the 
way. 

Give  her  to  me  to  make  my  honey- 
moon. 

Eleanor.  Ay,  as  the  bears  love  honey. 
Could  you  keep  her 
Indungeon’d  from  one  whisper  of  the 
wind, 

Dark  even  from  a side  glance  of  the 
moon, 

And  oublietted  in  the  centre  — No  ! 

I follow  out  my  hate  and  thy  revenge. 

Fitzurse.  You  bade  me  take  revenge 
another  way  — 

To  bring  her  to  the  dust.  . . . Come 
with  me,  love, 

And  I will  love  thee.  . . . Madam, 
let  her  live. 

I have  a far-off  burrow  where  the  King 
Would  miss  her  and  for  ever. 

Eleanor.  How  sayest  thou,  sweet- 
heart ? 

Wilt  thou  go  with  him  ? he  will  marry 
thee. 

Rosamund.  Give  me  the  poison ; 
set  me  free  of  him  ! 

[Eleanor  offers  the  vial. 
No,  no ! I will  not  have  it. 

Eleanor.  Then  this  other, 

The  wiser  choice,  because  my  sleep- 
ing-draught 

May  bloat  thy  beauty  out  of  shape, 
and  make 


BECKET. 


787 


Thy  body  loathsome  even  to  thy  child ; 

While  this  but  leaves  thee  with  a bro- 
ken heart, 

A doll-face  blanch’d  and  bloodless, 
over  which 

If  pretty  Geoffrey  do  not  break  his 
own, 

It  must  be  broken  for  him. 

Rosamund.  O I see  now 

Your  purpose  is  to  fright  me  — a 
troubadour 

You  play  with  words.  You  had 
never  used  so  many, 

Not  if  you  meant  it,  I am  sure.  The 
child  . . . 

No  . . . mercy ! No  ! [ Kneels . 

Eleanor.  Play ! . . . that  bosom 
never 

Heaved  under  the  King’s  hand  with 
such  true  passion 

As  at  this  loveless  knife  that  stirs  the 
riot, 

Which  it  will  quench  in  blood  ! Slave, 
if  he  love  thee, 

Thy  life  is  worth  the  wrestle  for  it : 
arise, 

And  dash  thyself  against  me  that  I 
may  slay  thee ! 

The  worm ! shall  I let  her  go  % But 
ha  ! what’s  here  ? 

By  very  God,  the  cross  I gave  the 
King ! 

His  village  darling  in  some  lewd 
caress 

Has  wheedled  it  off  the  King’s  neck 
to  her  own. 

By  thy  leave,  beauty.  Ay,  the  same  ! 
I warrant 

Thou  hast  sworn  on  this  my  cross  a 
hundred  times 

Never  to  leave  him  — and  that  merits 
death, 

False  oath  on  holy  cross  — for  thou 
must  leave  him 

To-day,  but  not  quite  yet.  My  good 
Fitzurse, 

The  running  down  the  chase  is  kind- 
lier sport 

Ev’n  than  the  death.  Who  knows 
but  that  thy  lover 

May  plead  so  pitifully,  that  I may 
spare  thee  ? 


Come  hither,  man  ; stand  there.  ( To 
Rosamund.)  Take  thy  one 
chance ; 

Catch  at  the  last  straw.  Kneel  to 
thy  lord  Fitzurse ; 

Crouch  even  because  thou  liatest  him ; 

fawn  upon  him 
For  thy  life  and  thy  son’s. 

Rosamund  (rising).  I am  a Clifford, 
My  son  a Clifford  and  Plantagenet. 

I am  to  die  then,  tho’  there  stand 
beside  thee 

One  who  might  grapple  with  thy  dag- 
ger, if  he 

Had  aught  of  man,  or  thou  of 
woman  ; or  I 

Would  bow  to  such  a baseness  as 
would  make  me 

Most  worthy  of  it : both  of  us  will  die, 
And  I will  fly  with  my  sweet  boy  to 
heaven, 

And  shriek  to  all  the  saints  among 
the  stars  : 

“ Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Eleanor  of 
England ! 

Murder’d  by  that  adulteress  Eleanor, 
Whose  doings  are  a horror  to  the  east, 
A hissing  in  the  west ! ” Have  we 
not  heard 

Raymond  of  Poitou,  thine  own  uncle 
— nay, 

Geoffrey  Plantagenet,  thine  own  bus 
band’s  father  — 

Nay,  ev’n  the  accursed  heathen  Sal- 

addeen  

Strike ! 

I challenge  thee  to  meet  me  before 
God. 

Answer  me  there. 

Eleanor  ( raising  the  dagger).  This 
in  thy  bosom,  fool, 

And  after  in  thy  bastard’s  ! 

Enter  Becket  from  behind.  Catches 
hold  of  her  arm. 

Becket.  Murderess ! 

[ The  dagger  falls;  they  stare  at  one  an- 
other After  a pause. 

Eleanor.  My  lord,  we  know  you 
proud  of  your  fine  hand, 

But  having  now  admired  it  long 
enough, 


788 


BECKET. 


We  find  that  it  is  mightier  than  it 
seems  — 

At  least  mine  own  is  frailer : you  are 
laming  it. 

Bechet.  And  lamed  and  maim’d  to 
dislocation,  better 

Than  raised  to  take  a life  which 
Henry  bade  me 

Guard  from  the  stroke  that  dooms 
thee  after  death 

To  wail  in  deathless  flame. 

Eleanor.  Nor  you,  nor  I 

Have  now  to  learn,  my  lord,  that  our 
good  Henry 

Says  many  a thing  in  sudden  heats, 
which  he 

Gainsays  by  next  sunrising  — often 
ready 

To  tear  himself  for  having  said  as 
much. 

My  lord,  Fitzurse 

Bechet.  He  too ! what  dost  thou 
here  1 

Dares  the  bear  slouch  into  the  lion’s 
den  1 

One  downward  plunge  of  his  paw 
would  rend  away 

Eyesight  and  manhood,  life  itself, 
from  thee. 

Go,  lest  I blast  thee  with  anathema, 

And  make  thee  a world’s  horror. 

Fitzurse.  My  lord,  I shall 

Remember  this. 

Bechet.  I do  remember  thee ; 

Lest  I remember  thee  to  the  lion,  go. 

[_Exit  Fitzurse. 

Take  up  your  dagger;  put  it  in  the 
sheath. 

Eleanor.  Might  not  your  courtesy 
stoop  to  hand  it  me  1 

But  crowns  must  bow  when  mitres  sit 
so  high. 

Well  — well  — too  costly  to  be  left  or 
lost.  [ Pichs  up  the  dagger. 

I had  it  from  an  Arab  soldan,  who, 

When  I was  there  in  Antioch,  mar- 
vell’d  at 

Our  unfamiliar  beauties  of  the  west ; 

But  wonder’d  more  at  my  much  con- 
stancy 

To  the  monk-king,  Louis,  our  former 
burthen. 


From  whom,  as  being  too  kin,  you 
know,  my  lord, 

God’s  grace  and  Holy  Church  deliver’d 
us. 

I think,  time  given,  I could  have  talk’d 
him  out  of 

His  ten  wives  into  one.  Look  at  the 
hilt. 

What  excellent  workmanship.  In  our 
poor  west 

We  cannot  do  it  so  well. 

Bechet.  We  can  do  worse. 

Madam,  I saw  your  dagger  at  her 
throat ; 

I heard  your  savage  cry. 

Eleanor.  Well  acted,  was  it  ? 

A comedy  meant  to  seem  a tragedy  — 

A feint,  a farce.  My  honest  lord,  you 
are  known 

Thro’  all  the  courts  of  Christendom  as 
one 

That  mars  a cause  with  over-violence. 

You  have  wrong’d  Fitzurse.  I speak 
not  of  myself. 

We  thought  to  scare  this  minion  of  the 
King 

Back  from  her  churchless  commerce 
with  the  King 

To  the  fond  arms  of  her  first  love, 
Fitzurse, 

Who  swore  to  marry  her.  You  have 
spoilt  the  farce. 

My  savage  cry  ? Why,  she  — she  — 
when  I strove 

To  work  against  her  license  for  her 
good, 

Bark’d  out  at  me  such  monstrous 
charges,  that 

The  King  himself,  for  love  of  his  own 
sons, 

If  hearing,  would  have  spurn’d  her; 
whereupon 

I menaced  her  with  this,  as  when  we 
threaten 

A yelper  with  a stick.  Nay,  I deny 
not 

That  I was  somewhat  anger’d.  Do  you 
hear  me  1 

Believe  or  no,  I care  not.  You  have 
lost 

The  ear  of  the  King.  I have  it.  . . . 
My  lord  Paramount, 


BECKET. 


789 


Our  great  High-priest,  will  not  your 
Holiness 

Vouchsafe  a gracious  answer  to  your 
Queen  1 

Bechet.  Rosamund  hath  not  an- 
swer’d you  one  word ; 

Madam,  I will  not  answer  you  one 
word. 

Daughter,  the  w orld  hath  trick’d  thee. 
Leave  it,  daughter; 

Come  thou  with  me  to  Godstow  nun- 
nery, 

And  live  what  may  be  left  thee  of  a 
life 

Saved  as  by  miracle  alone  with  Him 

Who  gave  it. 

Re-enter  Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey.  Mother,  you  told  me  a 
great  fib : it  wasn’t  in  the  willow. 

Bechet.  Follow  us,  my  son,  and  we 
will  find  it  for  thee  — 

Or  something  manlier. 

[Exeunt  Becket,  Rosamund,  and 
Geoffrey. 

Eleanor.  The  world  hath  trick’d  her 
— that’s  the  King ; if  so, 

There  was  the  farce,  the  feint  — not 
mine.  And  yet 

I am  all  but  sure  my  dagger  was  a 
feint 

Till  the  worm  turn’d  — not  life  shot 
up  in  blood, 

But  death  drawn  in  ; — ( looking  at  the 
vial)  this  was  no  feint  then  ? no. 

But  can  I swear  to  that,  had  she  but 
given 

Plain  answer  to  plain  query  ? nay, 
methinks 

Had  she  but  bow’d  herself  to  meet  the 
wave 

Of  humiliation,  worshipt  whom  she 
loathed, 

I should  have  let  her  be,  scorn’d  her 
too  much 

To  harm  her.  Henry  — Becket  tells 
him  this  — 

To  take  my  life  might  lose  him 
Aquitaine. 

Too  politic  for  that.  Imprison  me  ? 

No,  for  it  came  to  nothing  — only  a 
feint. 


Did  she  not  tell  me  I was  playing  on 
her  ? 

I’ll  swear  to  mine  own  self  it  was  a 
feint. 

Why  should  I swear,  Eleanor,  who 
am,  or  was, 

A sovereign  power  1 The  King  plucks 
out  their  eyes 

Who  anger  him,  and  shall  not  I,  the 
Queen, 

Tear  out  her  heart — kill,  kill  with 
knife  or  venom 

One  of  his  slanderous  harlots  1 “None 
of  such  '?  ” 

I love  her  none  the  more.  Tut,  the 
chance  gone, 

She  lives  — but  not  for  him ; one  point 
is  gain’d. 

O I,  that  thro’  the  Pope  divorced  King 
Louis, 

Scorninghis  monkery, — I that  wedded 
Henry, 

Honoring  his  manhood  — will  he  not 
mock  at  me 

The  jealous  fool  balk’d  of  her  will  — 
with  him  ? 

But  he  and  he  must  never  meet  again. 

Reginald  Fitzurse  ! 

Re-enter  Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse.  Here,  Madam,  at  your 
pleasure. 

Eleanor.  My  pleasure  is  to  have  a 
man  about  me. 

Why  did  you  slink  away  so  like  a 
cur  ? 

Fitzurse.  Madam,  I am  as  much 
man  as  the  King. 

Madam,  I fear  Church-censures  like 
your  King. 

Eleanor.  He  grovels  to  the  Church 
when  he’s  black-blooded, 

But  kinglike  fought  the  proud  arch- 
bishop, — kinglike 

Defied  the  Pope,  and,  like  his  kingly 
sires, 

The  Normans,  striving  still  to  break  or 
bind 

The  spiritual  giant  with  our  island 
laws 

And  customs,  made  me  for  the  moment 
proud 


790 


BECKET. 


Ev’n  of  that  stale  Church-bond  which 
link’d  me  with  him 

To  bear  him  kingly  sons.  I am  not 
so  sure 

But  that  I love  him  still.  Thou  as 
much  man ! 

No  more  of  that ; we  will  to  France 
and  be 

Beforehand  with  the  King,  and  brew 
from  out 

This  Godstow-Becket  intermeddling 
such 

A strong  hate-philtre  as  may  madden 
him  — madden 

Against  his  priest  beyond  all  hellebore. 


ACT  Y. 

SCENE  I. — Castle  in  Normandy. 

King’s  Chamber. 

Henry,  Roger  or  York,  Foliot, 
Jocelyn  of  Salisbury. 

Roger  of  York.  Nay,  nay,  my  liege, 

He  rides  abroad  with  armed  followers, 

Hath  broken  all  his  promises  to  thy- 
self, 

Cursed  and  anathematized  us  right 
and  left, 

Stirr’d  up  a party  there  against  your 
son  — 

Henry.  Roger  of  York,  you  always 
hated  him, 

Even  when  you  both  were  boys  at 
Theobald’s. 

Roger  of  York.  I always  hated 
boundless  arrogance. 

In  mine  own  cause  I strove  against 
him  there, 

And  in  thy  cause  I strive  against  him 
now. 

Henry.  I cannot  think  he  moves 
against  my  son, 

Knowing  right  well  with  what  a ten- 
derness 

He  loved  my  son. 

Roger  of  York.  Before  you  made 
him  king. 

But  Becket  ever  moves  against  a king. 

The  Church  is  all  — the  crime  to  be  a 
king. 


We  trust  your  Royal  Grace,  lord  of 
more  land 

Than  any  crown  in  Europe,  will  not 
yield 

To  lay  your  neck  beneath  your  citi- 
zens’ heel. 

Henry.  Not  to  a Gregory  of  my 
throning ! No. 

Foliot.  My  royal  liege,  in  aiming  at 
your  love, 

It  may  be  sometimes  I have  over- 
shot 

My  duties  to  our  Holy  Mother  Church, 

Tho’  all  the  world  allows  I fall  no 
inch 

Behind  this  Becket,  rather  go  beyond 

In  scourgings,  macerations,  mortify- 
ings, 

Fasts,  disciplines  that  clear  the  spir- 
itual eye, 

And  break  the  soul  from  earth.  Let 
all  that  be. 

I boast  not : but  you  know  thro’  all 
this  quarrel 

I still  have  cleaved  to  the  crown,  in 
hope  the  crown 

Would  cleave  to  me  that  but  obey’d 
the  crown, 

Crowning  your  son  ; for  which  our 
loyal  service, 

And  since  we  likewise  swore  to  obey 
the  customs, 

York  and  myself,  and  our  good  Salis- 
bury here, 

Are  push’d  from  out  communion  of 
the  Church. 

Jocelyn  of  Salisbury.  Becket  hath 
trodden  on  us  like  worms,  my 
liege ; 

Trodden  one  half  dead ; one  half,  but 
half-alive, 

Cries  to  the  King. 

Henry  (aside).  Take  care  o’ thyself, 
O King. 

Jocelyn  of  Salisbury.  Being  so  crush’d 
and  so  humiliated 

We  scarcely  dare  to  bless  the  food  we 
eat 

Because  of  Becket. 

Henry.  What  would  ye  have  me  do? 

Roger  of  York.  Summon  your 
barons ; take  their  counsel : yet 


BECKET. 


791 


I know  — could  swear  — as  long  as 
Becket  breathes, 

Your  Grace  will  never  have  one  quiet 
hour. 

Henry.  What  1 . . . Ay  . . . but 
pray  you  do  not  work  upon 
me. 

I see  your  drift  ...  it  may  be  so  . . . 
and  yet 

You  know  me  easily  anger’d.  Will 
you  hence  ? 

He  shall  absolve  you  . . . you  shall 
have  redress. 

[ have  a dizzying  headache.  Let  me 
rest. 

[’ll  call  you  by  and  by. 

[. Exeunt  Roger  of  York,  Foliot, 
and  Jocelyn  of  Salisbury. 

Would  he  were  dead!  I have  lost  all 
love  for  him. 

If  God  would  take  him  in  some  sud- 
den way  — 

Would  he  were  dead.  [ Lies  down . 

Page  ( entering ).  My  liege,  the 

Queen  of  England. 

Henry.  God’s  eyes ! [Starting  up. 

Enter  Eleanor. 

Eleanor.  Of  England  ? Say  of 
Aquitaine. 

I am  no  Queen  of  England.  I had 
dream ’d 

I was  the  bride  of  England,  and 
a queen. 

Henry.  And,  — while  you  dream’d 
you  were  the  bride  of  Eng- 
land, — 

Stirring  her  baby-king  against  me  ? 
ha ! 

Eleanor.  The  brideless  Becket  is 
thy  king  and  mine  : 

I will  go  live  and  die  in  Aquitaine. 

Henry.  Except  I clap  thee  into 
prison  here, 

Lest  thou  shouldst  play  the  wanton 
there  again. 

Ha,  you  of  Aquitaine ! 0 you  of 

Aquitaine ! 

You  were  but  Aquitaine  to  Louis  — 
no  wife ; 

You  are  only  Aquitaine  to  me — no 
wife. 


Eleanor.  And  why,  my  lord,  should 
I be  wife  to  one 

That  only  wedded  me  for  Aquitaine  ? 

Yet  this  no  wife  — her  six  and  thirty 
sail 

Of  Provence  blew  you  to  your  Eng- 
lish throne  ; 

And  this  no  wife  has  borne  you  four 
brave  sons, 

And  one  of  them  at  least  is  like  to 
prove 

Bigger  in  our  small  world  than  thou 
art. 

Henry.  Ay  — 

Richard,  if  he  be  mine  — I hope  him 
mine. 

But  thou  art  like  enough  to  make  him 
thine. 

Eleanor.  Becket  is  like  enough  to 
make  all  his. 

Henry.  Methought  I had  recover’d 
of  the  Becket, 

That  all  was  planed  and  bevell’d 
smooth  again, 

Save  from  some  hateful  cantrip  of 
thine  own. 

Eleanor.  I will  go  live  and  die  in 
Aquitaine. 

I dream’d  I was  the  consort  of  a king, 

Not  one  whose  back  his  priest  has 
broken. 

Henry.  What ! 

Is  the  end  come  ? You,  will  you  crown 
my  foe 

My  victor  in  mid-battle  ? I will  be 

Sole  master  of  my  house.  The  end  is 
mine. 

What  game,  what  juggle,  what  devilry 
are  you  playing  ? 

Why  do  you  thrust  this  Becket  on  me 
again  1 

Eleanor.  Why  1 for  I am  true  wife, 
and  have  my  fears 

Lest  Becket  thrust  you  even  from 
your  throne. 

Do  you  know  this  cross,  my  liege  ? 

Henry  ( turning  his  head).  Away! 
Not  I. 

Eleanor.  Not  ev’n  the  central  dia- 
mond, worth,  I think, 

Half  of  the  Antioch  whence  I had  it. 

Henry.  That  ? 


792 


BECKET. 


Eleanor.  I gave  it  to  you,  and  you 
your  paramour ; 

She  sends  it  back,  as  being  dead  to 
earth, 

So  dead  henceforth  to  you. 

Henry.  Dead  ! you  have  murder’d 
her, 

Found  out  her  secret  bower  and  mur- 
der’d her. 

Eleanor.  Your  Becket  knew  the 
secret  of  your  bower. 

Henry  ( calling  out).  Ho  there  ! thy 
rest  of  life  is  hopeless  prison. 

Eleanor.  And  what  would  my  own 
Aquitaine  say  to  that  ? 

First,  free  thy  captive  from  her  hope- 
less prison. 

Henry.  O devil,  can  I free  her  from 
the  grave  ? 

Eleanor.  You  are  too  tragic:  both 
of  us  are  players 

In  such  a comedy  as  our  court  of 
Provence 

Had  laugh’d  at.  That’s  a delicate 
Latin  lay 

Of  Walter  Map:  the  lady  holds  the 
cleric 

Lovelier  than  any  soldier,  his  poor 
tonsure 

A crown  of  Empire.  Will  you  have 
it  again  ? 

[ Offering  the  cross.  He  dashes  it 
down. 

St.  Cupid,  that  is  too  irreverent. 

Then  mine  once  more.  ( Puts  it  on.) 

Your  cleric  hath  your  lady. 

Nay,  what  uncomely  faces,  could  he 
see  you ! 

Foam  at  the  mouth  because  King 
Thomas,  lord 

Not  only  of  your  vassals  but 
amours, 

Thro’  chastest  honor  of  the  Decalogue 

Hath  used  the  full  authority  of  his 
Church 

To  put  her  into  Godstow  nunnery. 

Henry.  To  put  her  into  Godstow 
nunnery ! 

He  dared  not  — liar!  yet,  yet  I 
remember  — 

I do  remember. 

He  bade  me  put  her  into  a nunnery  — 


Into  Godstow,  into  Hellstow,  Devil- 
stow ! 

The  Church  ! the  Church  ! 

God’s  eyes ! I would  the  Church 
were  down  in  hell ! [ Exit . 

Eleanor.  Aha ! 

Enter  the  four  Knights. 

Fitzurse.  What  made  the  King  cry 
out  so  furiously  I 

Eleanor.  Our  Becket,  who  will  not 
absolve  the  Bishops. 

I think  ye  four  have  cause  to  love 
this  Becket. 

Fitzurse.  I hate  him  for  his  inso- 
lence to  all. 

De  Tracy.  And  I for  his  insolence 
to  thee. 

De  Brito.  I hate  him  for  I hate 
him  is  my  reason, 

And  yet  I hate  him  for  a hypocrite. 

De  Morville.  I do  not  love  him,  for 
he  did  his  best 

To  break  the  barons,  and  now  braves 
the  King. 

Eleanor.  Strike,  then,  at  once,  the 
King  would  have  him  — See  ! 

Re-enter  Henry. 

Henry.  No  man  to  love  me,  honor 
me,  obey  me ! 

Sluggards  and  fools ! 

The  slave  that  eat  my  bread  has 
kick’d  his  King ! 

The  dog  I cramm’d  with  dainties  wor- 
ried me  ! 

The  fellow  that  on  a lame  jade  came 
to  court, 

A ragged  cloak  for  saddle  — he,  he 
he, 

To  shake  my  throne,  to  push  into  my 
chamber  — 

My  bed,  where  ev’n  the  slave  is  pri- 
vate — he  — 

I’ll  have  her  out  again,  he  shall  ab- 
solve 

The  bishops  — they  but  did  my  will 

— not  you  — 

Sluggards  and  fools,  why  do  you  stand 
and  stare  1 

You  are  no  king’s  men — you  — you 

— you  are  Becket’s  men. 


BECKET. 


793 


Down  with  King  Henry  ! up  with  the 
Archbishop ! 

Will  no  man  free  me  from  this  pesti- 
lent priest  \ [Exit. 

[ The  Knights  draw  their  swords. 

Eleanor.  Are  ye  king’s  men  ? I am 
king’s  woman,  I. 

The  Knights.  King’s  men!  King’s 
men ! 


SCENE  II. 

A Room  in  Canterbury  Monas- 
tery. 

Becket  and  John  of  Salisbury. 

Bechet.  York  said  so  ? 

John  of  Salisbury.  Yes  : a man  may 
take  good  counsel 

Ev’n  from  his  foe. 

Bucket.  York  will  say  anything. 

What  is  he  saying  now  \ gone  to  the 
King 

And  taken  our  anathema  with  him. 
York ! 

Can  the  King  de-anathematize  this 
York  I 

John  of  Salisbury.  Thomas,  I would 
thou  hadst  return’d  to  England, 

Like  some  wise  prince  of  this  world 
from  his  wars, 

With  more  of  olive-branch  and  am- 
nesty 

For  foes  at  home  — thou  hast  raised 
the  world  against  thee. 

Bechet.  Why,  John,  my  kingdom  is 
not  of  this  world. 

John  of  Salisbury.  If  it  were  more 
of  this  world  it  might  be 

More  of  the  next.  A policy  of  wise 
pardon 

Wins  here  as  well  as  there.  To  bless 
thine  enemies 

Bechet.  Ay,  mine,  not  Heaven’s. 

John  of  Salisbury.  And  may  there 
not  be  something 

Cf  this  world’s  leaven  in  thee  too, 
when  crying 

On  Holy  Church  to  thunder  out  her 
rights 


And  thine  own  wrong  so  pitilessly  ? 
Ah,  Thomas, 

The  lightnings  that  we  think  are  only 
Heaven’s 

Flash  sometimes  out  of  earth  against 
the  heavens. 

The  soldier,  when  he  lets  his  whole 
self  go 

Lost  in  the  common  good,  the  com- 
mon wrong, 

Strikes  truest  ev’n  for  his  own  self. 
I crave 

Thy  pardon  — I have  still  thy  leave 
to  speak. 

Thou  hast  waged  God’s  war  against 
the  King ; and  yet 

We  are  self-uncertain  creatures,  and 
we  may, 

Yea,  even  when  we  know  not,  mix  our 
spites 

And  private  hates  with  our  defence  of 
Heaven. 

Enter  Edward  Grim. 

Bechet.  Thou  art  but  yesterday 
from  Cambridge,  Grim ; 

What  say  ye  there  of  Becket  ? 

Grim.  I believe  him 

The  bravest  in  our  roll  of  Primates 
down 

From  Austin  — there  are  some  — for 
there  are  men 

Of  canker’d  judgment  everywhere 

Bechet.  Who  hold 

With  York,  with  York  against  me. 

Grim.  Well,  my  lord, 

A stranger  monk  desires  access  to  you. 

Bechet.  York  against  Canterbury, 
York  against  God ! 

I am  open  to  him.  [ Exit  Grim. 

Enter  Rosamund  as  a Monk. 

Rosamund.  Can  I speak  with  you 

Alone,  my  father  'l 

Bechet.  Come  you  to  confess  ? 

Rosamund.  Not  now. 

Bechet.  Then  speak ; this  is  my 
other  self, 

Who  like  my  conscience  never  lets 
me  be. 


794 


BECKET. 


Rosamund  ( throwing  back  the  cowl). 
I know  him ; our  good  John  of 
Salisbury. 

Becket.  Breaking  already  from  thy 
novitiate 

To  plunge  into  this  bitter  world 
again  — 

These  wells  of  Marah.  I am  grieved, 
my  daughter. 

I thought  that  I had  made  a peace  for 
thee. 

Rosamund.  Small  peace  was  mine 
in  my  novitiate,  father. 

Thro’  all  closed  doors  a dreadful 
whisper  crept 

That  thou  wouldst  excommunicate  the 
King. 

I could  not  eat,  sleep,  pray:  I had 
with  me 

The  monk’s  disguise  thou  gavest  me 
for  my  bower  : 

I think  our  Abbess  knew  it  and 
allow’d  it. 

I fled,  and  found  thy  name  a charm  to 
get  me 

Food,  roof,  and  rest.  I met  a robber 
once, 

I told  him  I was  bound  to  see  the 
Archbishop  ; 

“ Pass  on,”  he  said,  and  in  thy  name 
I pass’d 

From  house  to  house.  In  one  a son 
stone-blind 

Sat  by  his  mother’s  hearth : he  had 
gone  too  far 

Into  the  King’s  own  woods;  and  the 
poor  mother, 

Soon  as  she  learnt  I was  a friend  of 
thine, 

Cried  out  against  the  cruelty  of  the 
King. 

I said  it  was  the  King’s  courts,  not 
the  King; 

But  she  would  not  believe  me,  and 
she  wish’d 

The  Church  were  King : she  had  seen 
the  Archbishop  once, 

So  mild,  so  kind.  The  people  love 
thee,  father. 

Becket.  Alas!  when  I was  Chancel- 
lor to  the  King, 

I fear  I was  as  cruel  as  the  King. 


Rosamund.  Cruel  ? Oh,  no  — it  is 
the  law,  not  he  ; 

The  customs  of  the  realm. 

Becket.  The  customs  ! customs ! 

Rosamund.  My  lord,  you  have  not 
excommunicated  him  ? 

Oh,  if  you  have,  absolve  him ! 

Becket.  Daughter,  daughter, 

Deal  not  with  things  you  know 
not. 

Rosamund.  I know  him. 

Then  you  have  done  it,  and  I call  you 
cruel. 

John  of  Salisbury.  No,  daughter, 
you  mistake  our  good  Arch- 
bishop ; 

For  once  in  France  the  King  had  been 
so  harsh, 

He  thought  to  excommunicate  him  — 
Thomas, 

You  could  not — old  affection  mas- 
ter’d you, 

You  falter’d  into  tears. 

Rosamund.  God  bless  him  for  it. 

Becket.  Nay,  make  me  not  a 
woman,  John  of  Salisbury, 

Nor  make  me  traitor  to  my  holy 
office. 

Did  not  a man’s  voice  ring  along  the 
aisle, 

“The  King  is  sick  and  almost  unto 
death.” 

How  could  I excommunicate  him 
then  ? 

Rosamund.  And  wilt  thou  excom- 
municate him  now  ? 

Becket.  Daughter,  my  time  is  short, 
I shall  not  do  it. 

And  were  it  longer  — well  — I should 
not  do  it. 

Rosamund.  Thanks  in  this  life,  and 
in  the  life  to  come. 

Becket.  Get  thee  back  to  thy  nun- 
nery with  all  haste ; 

Let  this  be  thy  last  trespass.  But 
one  question  — 

How  fares  thy  pretty  boy,  the  little 
Geoffrey  ? 

No  fever,  cough,  croup,  sickness  ? 

Rosamund.  No,  but  saved 

From  all  that  by  our  solitude.  The 
plagues 


a SECRET. 


795 


That  smite  the  city  spare  the  soli- 
tudes. 

'Bechet.  God  save  him  from  all 
sickness  of  the  soul ! 

Thee  too,  thy  solitude  among  thy 
nuns, 

May  that  save  thee ! Doth  he  re- 
member me  1 

Rosamund.  I warrant  him. 

Bechet.  He  is  marvellously  like 
thee. 

Rosamund.  Liker  the  King. 

Bechet.  No,  daughter. 

Rosamund.  Ay,  but  wait 

Till  his  nose  rises  ; he  will  be  very 
king. 

Bechet.  Ev’n  so : but  think  not  of 
the  King : farewell ! 

Rosamund.  My  lord,  the  city  is 
full  of  armed  men. 

Bechet.  Ev’n  so  : farewell ! 

Rosamund.  I will  but  pass  to  ves- 
pers, 

And  breathe  one  prayer  for  my  liege- 
lord  the  King, 

His  child  and  mine  own  soul,  and  so 
return. 

Bechet.  Pray  for  me  too : much 
need  of  prayer  have  I. 

[Rosamund  hneels  and  goes. 

Dan  John,  how  much  we  lose,  we  celi- 
bates, 

Lacking  the  love  of  woman  and  of 
child. 

John  of  Salisbury.  More  gain  than 
loss ; for  of  your  wives  you 
shall 

Find  one  a slut  whose  fairest  linen 
seems 

Foul  as  her  dust-cloth,  if  she  used  it 
— one 

So  charged  with  tongue,  that  every 
thread  of  thought 

Is  broken  ere  it  joins  — a shrew  to 
boot, 

Whose  evil  song  far  on  into  the  night 

Thrills  to  the  topmost  tile  — no  hope 
but  death ; 

One  slow,  fat,  white,  a burthen  of  the 
hearth ; 

And  one  that  being  thwarted  ever 
swoons 


And  weeps  herself  into  the  place  of 
power ; 

And  one  an  uxor  pauperis  Ibyci. 

So  rare  the  household  honeymaking 
bee, 

Man’s  help ! but  we,  we  have  the 
Blessed  Virgin 

For  worship,  and  our  Mother  Church 
for  bride ; 

And  all  the  souls  we  saved  and 
father’d  here 

Will  greet  us  as  our  babes  in  Paradise. 

What  noise  was  that  1 she  told  us  of 
arm’d  men 

Here  in  the  city.  Will  you  not  with- 
draw ? 

Bechet.  I once  was  out  with  Henry 
in  the  days 

When  Henry  loved  me,  and  we  came 
upon 

A wild-fowl  sitting  on  her  nest,  so  still 

I reach’d  my  hand  and  touch’d ; she 
did  not  stir ; 

The  snow  had  frozen  round  her,  and 
she  sat 

Stone-dead  upon  a heap  of  ice-cold 
eggs. 

Look ! how  this  love,  this  mother, 
runs  thro’  all 

The  world  God  made  — even  the 
beast  — the  bird ! 

John  of  Salisbury.  Ay,  still  a lover 
of  the  beast  and  bird  ? 

But  these  arm’d  men  — will  you  not 
hide  yourself  ? 

Perchance  the  fierce  De  Brocs  from 
Saltwood  Castle, 

To  assail  our  Holy  Mother  lest  she 
brood 

Too  long  o’er  this  hard  egg,  the  world, 
and  send 

Her  whole  heart’s  heat  into  it,  till  it 
break 

Into  young  angels.  Pray  you,  hide 
yourself. 

Bechet.  There  was  a little  fair- 
hair’d  Norman  maid 

Lived  in  my  mother’s  house : if  Rosa- 
mund is 

The  world’s  rose,  as  her  name  imports 
her  — she 

Was  the  world’s  lily. 


796 


BECKET. 


John  of  Salisbury.  Ay,  and  what  of 
her  ? 

Becket.  She  died  of  leprosy. 

John  of  Salisbury.  I know  not  why 

You  call  these  old  things  back  again, 
my  lord. 

Bechet.  The  drowning  man,  they 
say,  remembers  all 

The  chances  of  his  life,  just  ere  he 
dies. 

John  of  Salisbury.  Ay  — but  these 
arm’d  men  — will  you  drown 
yourself ? 

He  loses  half  the  meed  of  martyr- 
dom 

Who  will  be  martyr  when  he  might 
escape. 

Bechet.  What  day  of  the  week? 
Tuesday  ? 

John  of  Salisbury.  Tuesday,  my 
lord. 

Bechet.  On  a Tuesday  was  I born, 
and  on  a Tuesday 

Baptized ; and  on  a Tuesday  did  I fly 

Forth  from  Northampton  ; on  a Tues- 
day pass’d 

From  England  into  bitter  banish- 
ment ; 

On  a Tuesday  at  Pontigny  came  to 
me 

The  ghostly  warning  of  my  martyr- 
dom ; 

On  a Tuesday  from  mine  exile  I re- 
turn’d. 

And  on  a Tuesday 

[Tracy  enters,  then  Fitzurse,  De 
Brito,  and  De  Morville.  Monks 
following. 

— on  a Tuesday Tracy ! 

\_A  long  silence,  broken  by  Fitzurse 
saying,  contemptuously , 

God  help  thee ! 

John  of  Salisbury  (aside).  How  the 
good  Archbishop  reddens  ! 

He  never  yet  could  brook  the  note  of 
scorn. 

Fitzurse.  My  lord,  we  bring  a mes- 
sage from  the  King 

Beyond  the  water ; will  you  have  it 
alone, 

Or  with  these  listeners  near  you  ? 

Bechet.  As  you  will. 


Fitzurse.  Nay,  as  you  will. 

Bechet.  Nay,  as  you  will. 

John  of  Salisbury.  Why  then 

Better  perhaps  to  speak  with  them 
apart. 

Let  us  withdraw. 

[All  go  out  except  the  four  Knights 
and  Becket. 

Fitzurse.  We  are  all  alone  with 
him. 

Shall  I not  smite  him  with  his  own 
cross-staff  ? 

De  Morville.  No,  look  ! the  door  is 
open : let  him  be. 

Fitzurse.  The  King  condemns  your 
excommunicating 

Bechet.  This  is  no  secret,  but  a 
public  matter. 

In  here  again ! 

[John  of  Salisbury  and  Monks 
return. 

Now,  sirs,  the  King’s  commands  ! 

Fitzurse.  The  King  beyond  the 
water,  thro’  our  voices, 

Commands  you  to  be  dutiful  and 
leal 

To  your  young  King  on  this  side  of 
the  water, 

Not  scorn  him  for  the  foibles  of  his 
youth. 

What ! you  would  make  his  corona- 
tion void 

By  cursing  those  who  crown’d  him. 
Out  upon  you! 

Bechet.  Reginald,  all  men  know  I 
loved  the  Prince. 

His  father  gave  him  to  my  care,  and  I 

Became  his  second  father:  he- had  his 
faults, 

For  which  I would  have  laid  my  own 
life  down 

To  help  him  from  them,  since  indeed 
I loved  him, 

And  love  him  next  after  my  lord  his 
father. 

Rather  than  dim  the  splendor  of  his 
crown 

I fain  would  treble  and  quadruple  it 

With  revenues,  realms,  and  golden 
provinces 

So  that  were  done  in  equity. 

Fitzurse.  You  have  broken 


BECKET. 


797 


Your  bond  of  peace,  your  treaty  with 
the  King  — 

Wakening  such  brawls  and  loud  dis- 
turbances 

In  England,  that  he  calls  you  oversea 

To  answer  for  it  in  his  Norman  courts. 

Bechet.  Prate  not  of  bonds,  for 
never,  oh,  never  again 

Shall  the  waste  voice  of  the  bond- 
breaking sea 

Divide  me  from  the  mother  church  of 
England, 

My  Canterbury.  Loud  disturbances  ! 

Oh,  ay  — the  bells  rang  out  even  to 
deafening, 

Organ  and  pipe,  and  dulcimer,  chants 
and  hymns 

In  all  the  churches,  trumpets  in  the 
halls, 

Sobs,  laughter,  cries : they  spread 

their  raiment  down 

Before  me  — would  have  made  my 
pathway  flowers, 

Save  that  it  was  mid-winter  in  the 
street, 

But  full  mid-summer  in  those  honest 
hearts. 

Fitzurse.  The  King  commands  you 
to  absolve  the  bishops 

Whom  you  have  excommunicated. 

Bechet.  I ? 

Not  I,  the  Pope.  Ask  him  for  absolu- 
tion. 

Fitzurse.  But  you  advised  the  Pope. 

Bechet.  And  so  I did. 

They  have  but  to  submit. 

The  Four  Knights.  The  King  com- 
mands you. 

We  are  all  King’s  men. 

Bechet.  King’s  men  at  least  should 
know 

That  their  own  King  closed  with  me 
last  July 

That  I should  pass  the  censures  of 
the  Church 

On  those  that  crown’d  young  Henry 
in  this  realm, 

And  trampled  on  the  rights  of  Can- 
terbury. 

Fitzurse.  What ! dare  you  charge 
the  King  with  treachery  ? 

He  sanction  thee  to  excommunicate 


The  prelates  whom  he  chose  to  crown 
his  son  ! 

Bechet.  I spake  no  word  of  treach- 
ery, Reginald. 

But  for  the  truth  of  this  I make  appeal 

To  all  the  archbishops,  bishops,  pre- 
lates, barons, 

Monks,  knights,  five  hundred,  that 
were  there  and  heard. 

Nay,  you  yourself  were  there:  you 
heard  yourself. 

Fitzurse.  I was  not  there. 

Bechet.  I saw  you  there. 

Fitzurse.  I was  not. 

Bechet.  You  were.  I never  forget 
anything. 

Fitzurse.  He  makes  the  King  a 
traitor,  me  a liar. 

How  long  shall  we  forbear  him  ? 

John  of  Salisbury  ( drawing  Becket 
aside).  O my  good  lord, 

Speak  with  them  privately  on  this 
hereafter. 

You  see  they  have  been  revelling, 
and  I fear 

Are  braced  and  brazen’d  up  with 
Christmas  wines 

For  any  murderous  brawl. 

Bechet.  And  yet  they  prate 

Of  mine,  my  brawls,  when  those,  that 
name  themselves 

Of  the  King’s  part,  have  broken  down 
our  barns, 

Wasted  our  diocese,  outraged  our  ten- 
ants. 

Lifted  our  produce,  driven  our  clerics 
out  — 

Why  they,  your  friends,  these  ruffians, 
the  De  Brocs, 

They  stood  on  Dover  beach  to  mur- 
der me, 

They  slew  my  stags  in  mine  own  manor 
here, 

Mutilated,  poor  brute,  my  gumpter- 
mule, 

Plunder’d  the  vessel  full  of  Gascon 
wine, 

The  old  King’s  present,  carried  off  the 
casks, 

Kill’d  half  the  crew,  dungeon’d  the 
other  half 

In  Pevensey  Castle 


798 


BECKET. 


De  Morville.  Why  not  rather  then, 

If  this  be  so,  complain  to  your  young 
King, 

Not  punish  of  your  own  authority  ? 

j Bechet.  Mine  enemies  barr’d  all  ac- 
cess to  the  boy. 

They  knew  he  loved  me. 

Hugh,  Hugh,  how  proudly  you  exalt 
your  head  ! 

Nay,  when  they  seek  to  overturn  our 
rights, 

I ask  no  leave  of  king,  or  mortal 
man, 

To  set  them  straight  again.  Alone  I 
do  it. 

Give  to  the  King  the  things  that  are 
the  King’s, 

And  those  of  God  to  God. 

Fitzurse.  Threats  ! threats  ! 

ye  hear  him. 

What ! will  he  excommunicate  all  the 
world  ? 

[The  Knights  come  round  Beeket. 

De  Tracy.  He  shall  not. 

De  Brito.  Well,  as  yet 

— I should  be  grateful  — 

He  hath  not  excommunicated  me. 

Beeket.  Because  thou  was  born  ex- 
communicate. 

I never  spied  in  thee  one  gleam  of 
grace. 

De  Brito.  Your  Christian’s  Chris- 
tian charity. 

Beeket.  By  St.  Denis 

De  Brito.  Ay,  by  St.  Denis,  now  will 
he  flame  out, 

And  lose  his  head  as  old  St.  Denis 
did. 

Beeket.  Ye  think  to  scare  me  from 
my  loyalty 

To  God  and  to  the  Holy  Father. 
No! 

Tho’  all  the  swords  in  England  flash’d 
above  me 

Ready  to  fall  at  Henry’s  word  or 
yours  — 

Tho’  all  the  loud-lung’d  trumpets 
upon  earth 

Blared  from  the  heights  of  all  the 
thrones  of  her  kings, 

Blowing  the  world  against  me,  I would 
stand 


Clothed  with  the  full  authority  of 
Rome, 

Mail’d  in  the  perfect  panoply  of  faith, 
First  of  the  foremost  of  their  files, 
who  die 

For  God,  to  people  heaven  in  the  great 
day 

When  God  makes  up  his  jewels.  Once 
I fled  — 

Never  again,  and  you  — I marvel  at 
you  — 

Ye  know  what  is  between  us.  Ye 
have  sworn 

Yourselves  my  men  when  I was  Chan- 
cellor— 

My  vassals  — and  yet  threaten  your 
Archbishop 
In  his  own  house. 

Knights.  Nothing  can  be  between  us 
That  goes  against  our  fealty  to  the 
King. 

Fitzurse.  And  in  his  name  we  charge 
you  that  ye  keep 
This  traitor  from  escaping. 

Beeket.  Rest  you  easy, 

For  I am  easy  to  keep.  I shall  not  fly. 
Here,  here,  here  will  you  find  me. 

De  Morville.  Know  you  not 

You  have  spoken  to  the  peril  of  your 
life  ? 

Beeket.  As  I shall  speak  again. 

Fitzurse,  De  Tracy,  andDe  Brito.  To 
arms ! 

[ They  rush  out,  De  Morville  lingers. 

Beeket.  De  Morville, 

I had  thought  so  well  of  you ; and 
even  now 

You  seem  the  least  assassin  of  the 
four. 

Oh,  do  not  damn  yourself  for  com- 
pany! 

Is  it  too  late  for  me  to  save  your  soul  ? 
I pray  you  for  one  moment  stay  and 
speak. 

De  Morville.  Beeket,  it  is  too  late. 

[Exit. 

Beeket.  Is  it  too  late  ? 

Too  late  on  earth  may  be  too  soon  in 

heU. 

Knights  {in  the  distance).  Close  the 
great  gate  —ho,  there  — upon 
the  town. 


SECRET. 


799 


Bechet’s  Retainers.  Shut  the  hall- 
doors.  [A  pause. 

Bechet.  You  hear  them,  brother 
John ; 

Why  do  you  stand  so  silent,  brother 
John  ? 

John  of  Salisbury.  For  I was  mus- 
ing on  an  ancient  saw, 

Suaviter  in  modo,  fortiter  in  re, 

■ Is  strength  less  strong  when  hand-in- 
hand  with  grace  ? 

Gratior  in  pulchro  corpore  I'irtus. 
Thomas, 

Why  should  you  heat  yourself  for 
such  as  these  ? 

Bechet.  Methought  I answer’d  mod- 
erately enough. 

John  of  Salisbury.  As  one  that 
blows  the  coal  to  cool  the  fire. 

My  lord,  I marvel  why  you  never  lean 

On  any  man’s  advising  but  your  own. 

Bechet.  Is  it  so,  Dan  John  ? well, 
what  should  I have  done  1 

John  of  Salisbury.  You  should  have 
taken  counsel  with  your  friends 

Before  these  bandits  brake  into  your 
presence. 

They  seek  — you  make  — occasion  for 
your  death. 

Bechet.  My  counsel  is  already  taken, 
John. 

I am  prepared  to  die. 

John  of  Salisbury.  We  are  sinners 
all, 

The  best  of  all  not  all-prepared  to  die. 

Bechet.  God’s  will  be  done  ! 

John  of  Salisbury.  Ay,  well.  God’s 
will  be  done ! 

Grim  * ( re-entering ) . 

Grim.  My  lord,  the  knights  are 
arming  in  the  garden 

Beneath  the  sycamore. 

Bechet.  Good  ! let  them  arm. 

Grim.  And  one  of  the  De  Brocs  is 
with  them,  Robert, 

The  apostate  monk  that  was  with 
Randulf  here. 

He  knows  the  twists  and  turnings  of 
the  place. 

Bechet.  No  fear ! 


Grim.  No  fear,  my  lord. 

[ Crashes  on  the  hall-doors.  The 
Monks  flee. 

Bechet  (rising).  Our  dovecote  flown ! 

I cannot  tell  why  monks  should  all 
be  cowards. 

John  of  Salisbury.  Take  refuge  in 
your  own  cathedral,  Thomas. 

Bechet.  Do  they  not  fight  the  Great 
Fiend  day  by  day  ? 

Valor  and  holy  life  should  go  together. 

Why  should  all  monks  be  cowards  ? 

John  of  Salisbury.  Are  they  so  ? 

I say,  take  refuge  in  your  own  cathe- 
dral. 

Bechet.  Ay,  but  I told  them  I would 
wait  them  here. 

Grim.  May  they  not  say  you  dared 
not  show  yourself 

In  your  old  place  1 and  vespers  are 
beginning. 

[Bell  rings  for  vespers  till  end  of  scene. 

You  should  attend  the  office,  give 
them  heart. 

They  fear  you  slain  : they  dread  they 
know  not  what. 

Bechet.  Ay,  monks,  not  men. 

Grim.  I am  a monk,  my  lord. 

Perhaps,  my  lord,  you  wrong  us. 

Some  would  stand  by  you  to  the  death. 

Bechet.  Your  pardon. 

John  of  Salisbury.  He  said,  “At- 
tend the  office.” 

Bechet.  Attend  the  office  ? 

Why  then  — The  Cross  ! — who  bears 
my  Cross  before  me  ? 

Methought  they  would  have  brain’d 
me  with  it,  John. 

[Grim  tahes  it. 

Grim.  I!  Would  that  I could  bear 
thy  cross  indeed ! 

Bechet.  The  Mitre  ! 

John  of  Salisbury.  Will  you  wear 
it  ? — there  ! 

[Becket  puts  on  the  mitre. 

Bechet.  The  Pall ! 

I go  to  meet  my  King ! 

[Puts  on  the  pall. 

Grim.  To  meet  the  King  ? 

[Crashes  on  the  doors  as  they  go  out. 

John  of  Salisbury.  Why  do  you 
move  with  such  a stateliness  ? 


800 


BECKET. 


Can  you  not  hear  them  yonder  like  a 
storm, 

Battering  the  doors,  and  breaking 
thro’  the  walls  'i 

BecJcet.  Why  do  the  heathen  rage  1 
My  two  good  friends, 

What  matters  murder’d  here  or  mur- 
der’d there  ? 

And  yet  my  dream  foretold  my  mar- 
tyrdom 

In  mine  own  church.  It  is  God’s  will. 
Go  on. 

Nay,  drag  me  not.  W e must  not  seem 
to  fly. 

SCENE  III.  — North  Transept  of 
Canterbury  Cathedral.  On  the 

RIGHT  HAND  A FLIGHT  OF  STEPS 
LEADING  TO  THE  CHOIR,  ANOTHER 
FLIGHT  ON  THE  LEFT,  LEADING  TO 

the  North  Aisle.  Winter  af- 
ternoon SLOWLY  DARKENING.  LOW 
THUNDER  NOW  AND  THEN  OF  AN  AP- 
PROACHING storm.  Monks  heard 
CHANTING  THE  SERVICE.  ROSA- 
MUND KNEELING. 

Rosamund.  O blessed  saint,  O glori- 
ous Benedict,  — 

These  arm’d  men  in  the  city,  these 
fierce  faces  — 

Thy  holy  follower  founded  Canter- 
bury — 

Save  that  dear  head  which  now  is 
Canterbury, 

Save  him,  he  saved  my  life,  he  saved 
my  child, 

Save  him,  his  blood  would  darken 
Henry’s  name ; 

Save  him  till  all  as  saintly  as  thyself 

He  miss  the  searching  flame  of  purga- 
tory, and  pass  at  once  perfect 
to  Paradise. 

[Noise  of  steps  and  voices  in  the  cloisters. 

Hark  ! Is  it  they  ? Coming ! He  is 
not  here  — 

Not  yet,  thank  heaven.  O save  him  ! 

[Goes  up  steps  leading  to  choir. 

Becket  {entering , forced  along  by  John 
of  Salisbury  and  Grim). 

Bechet.  No,  1 tell  you  ! 

I cannot  bear  a hand  upon  my  person,  I 


Why  do  you  force  me  thus  against 
my  will  ? 

Grim.  My  lord,  we  force  you  from 
your  enemies. 

Bechet.  As  you  would  force  a king 
from  being  crown’d. 

John  of  Salisbury.  We  must  not 
force  the  crown  of  martrydom. 

[. Service  stops.  Monks  come  down 
from  the  stairs  that  lead  to  the 
choir. 

Monhs.  Here  is  the  great  Arch- 
bishop ! He  lives  ! he  lives ! 

Die  with  him,  and  be  glorified  to- 
gether. 

Bechet.  Together  ? . . . get  you 
back  ! go  on  with  the  office. 

Monhs.  Come,  then,  with  us  to  ves- 
pers. 

Bechet.  How  can  I come 

When  you  so  block  the  entry  ? Back, 
I say ! 

Go  on  with  the  office.  Shall  not 
Heaven  be  served 

Tho’  earth’s  last  earthquake  clash’d 
the  minster-bells, 

And  the  great  deeps  were  broken  up 
again, 

And  hiss’d  against  the  sun  1 

[Noise  in  the  cloisters. 

Monhs.  The  murderers,  hark ! 

Let  us  hide ! let  us  hide  ! 

Bechet.  What  do  these  people  fear  ? 

Monhs.  Those  arm’d  men  in  the 
cloister. 

Bechet.  Be  not  such  cravens  ! 

I will  go  out  and  meet  them. 

Grim  and  others.  Shut  the  doors  ! 

We  will  not  have  him  slain  before 
our  face. 

[ They  close  the  doors  of  the  transept. 
Knoching. 

Ply,  fly,  my  lord,  before  they  burst 
the  doors  ! [Knocking. 

Bechet.  Why,  these  are  our  own 
monks  who  follow’d  us  ! 

And  will  you  bolt  them  out,  and  have 
them  slain  1 

Undo  the  doors  : the  church  is  not  a 
castle  : 

Knock,  and  it  shall  be  open’d.  Are 
you  deaf  1 


BECKET. 


801 


What,  have  I lost  authority  among 
you  1 

Stand  by,  make  way  ! 

[ Opens  the  doors.  Enter  Monks 
from  cloister. 

Come  in,  my  friends,  come  in  ! 
Nay,  faster,  faster ! 

Monks.  Oh,  my  lord  Archbishop, 

A score  of  knights  all  arm’d  with 
swords  and  axes  — 

To  the  choir,  to  the  choir ! 

[Monks  divide,  part  flying  by  the 
stairs  on  the  right , part  by  those 
on  the  left.  The  rush  of  these  last 
bears  Becket  along  with  them 
some  way  up  the  steps,  where  he 
is  left  standing  alone. 

Becket.  Shall  I too  pass  to  the  choir, 
And  die  upon  the  Patriarchal  throne 
Of  all  my  predecessors  ? 

John  of  Salisbury.  No,  to  the  crypt! 
Twenty  steps  down.  Stumble  not  in 
the  darkness, 

Lest  they  should  seize  thee. 

Grim.  To  the  crypt  1 no  — no, 
To  the  chapel  of  St.  Blaise  beneath 
the  roof ! 

John  of  Salisbury  ( pointing  upward 
and  downward).  That  way,  or 
this  ! Save  thyself  either  way. 

Becket.  Oh,  no,  not  either  way,  nor 
any  way 

Save  by  that  way  which  leads  thro’ 
night  to  light. 

Not  twenty  steps,  but  one. 

And  fear  not  I should  stumble  in  the 
darkness, 

Nor  tho’  it  be  their  hour,  the  power  of 
darkness, 

But  my  hour  too,  the  power  of  light 
in  darkness  ! 

I am  not  in  the  darkness  but  the  light, 
Seen  by  the  Church  in  Heaven,  the 
Church  on  earth  — 

The  power  of  life  in  death  to  make 
her  free  ! 

[Enter  the  four  Knights.  John  of 
Salisbury  flies  to  the  altar  of  St. 
Benedict. 

Fitzurse.  Here,  here,  King’s  men  ! 

[ Catches  hold  of  the  last  flying  Monk. 

Where  is  the  traitor  Becket  ? 


Monk.  I am  not  he  ! I am  not  he, 
my  lord. 

I am  not  he  indeed  ! 

Fitzurse.  Hence  to  the  fiend ! 

[Pushes  him  away. 

Where  is  this  treble  traitor  to  the  King  ? 

De  Tracy.  Where  is  the  Archbishop, 
Thomas  Becket  'i 

Becket.  Here. 

No  traitor  to  the  King,  but  Priest  of 
God, 

Primate  of  England. 

[Descending  into  the  transept. 

I am  he  ye  seek. 

What  would  ye  have  of  me  ? 

Fitzurse.  Your  life. 

De  Tracy.  Your  life. 

De  Morville.  Save  that  you  will 
absolve  the  bishops. 

Becket.  Never,  — 

Except  they  make  submission  to  the 
Church. 

You  had  my  answer  to  that  cry  before. 

De  Morville.  Why,  then  you  are  a 
dead  man  ; flee  ! 

Becket.  I will  not. 

I am  readier  to  be  slain,  than  thou  to 
slay. 

Hugh,  I know  well  thou  hast  but  half 
a heart 

To  bathe  this  sacred  pavement  with 
my  blood. 

God  pardon  thee  and  these,  but  God’s 
full  curse 

Shatter  you  all  to  pieces  if  ye  harm 

One  of  my  flock  ! 

Fitzurse.  Was  not  the  great  gate 
shut  ? 

They  are  thronging  in  to  vespers  — ■ 
half  the  town. 

We  shall  be  overwhelm’d.  Seize  him 
and  carry  him ! 

Come  with  us  — nay  — thou  art  our 
prisoner — come  ! 

De  Morville.  Ay,  make  him  prisoner, 
do  not  harm  the  man. 

[Fitzurse  lays  hold  of  the  Arch- 
bishop’s pall. 

Becket.  Touch  me  not ! 

De  Brito.  How  the  good  priest  gods 
himself ! 

He  is  not  yet  ascended  to  the  Father. 


802 


BECKET. 


Fitzurse.  I will  not  only  touch,  but 
drag  thee  hence. 

Bechet.  Thou  art  my  man,  thou  art 
my  vassal.  Away ! 

[Flings  him  off  till  he  reels,  almost 
to  falling. 

De  Tracg  ( lags  hold  of  the  pall). 
Come  ; as  he  said,  thou  art  our 
prisoner. 

Bechet.  Down ! 

[ Throws  him  headlong. 

Fitzurse  ( advances  with  drawn  sword). 

I told  thee  that  I should  remember 
thee ! 

Bechet.  Profligate  pander ! 

Fitzurse.  Do  you  hear  that  ? strike, 
strike. 

\_Strihes  off  the  Archbishop’s  mitre, 
and  wounds  him  in  the  forehead. 

Bechet  (covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand). 

I do  commend  my  cause  to  God,  the 
Virgin, 

St.  Denis  of  France  and  St.  Alphege 
of  England, 

And  all  the  tutelar  Saints  of  Canter- 
bury. 

[Grim  wraps  his  arms  about  the 
Archbishop. 

Spare  this  defence,  dear  brother. 

[Tracy  has  arisen,  and  approaches, 
hesitatingly , with  his  sword  raised. 

Fitzurse.  Strike  him,  Tracy  ! 

Rosamund  ( rushing  down  steps  from 
choir).  No,  No,  No,  No  ! 

Fitzurse.  This  wanton  here.  De 
Morville, 

Hold  her  away. 

De  Morville.  I hold  her. 

Rosamund  ( held  bach  by  De  Morville, 
and  stretching  out  her  arms'). 

Mercy,  mercy, 

As  you  would  hope  for  mercy. 

Fitzurse.  Strike,  I say. 

Grim.  0 God,  0 noble  knights,  O 
sacrilege  ! 


Strike  our  Archbishop  in  his  own 
cathedral  ! 

The  Pope,  the  King,  will  curse  you  — 
the  whole  world 

Abhor  you ; ye  will  die  the  death  of 
dogs  ! 

Nay,  nay,  good  Tracy.  [Lifts  his  arm. 

Fitzurse.  Answer  not,  but  strike. 

De  Tracy.  There  is  my  answer  then. 

[Sword  falls  on  Grim’s  arm,  and 
glances  from  it,  wounding  Becket. 

Grim.  Mine  arm  is  sever’d. 

I can  no  more  — fight  out  the  good 
fight  — die 
Conqueror. 

[Staggers  into  the  chapel  of  St. 
Benedict. 

Bechet  ( falling  on  his  hnees).  At  the 
right  hand  of  Power  — 

Power  and  great  glory  — for  thy 
Church,  O Lord  — 

Into  Thy  hands,  0 Lord  — into  Thy 
hands  ! [Sinhs  prone. 

De  Brito.  This  last  to  rid  thee  of  a 
world  of  brawls!  [Kills  him. 
The  traitor’s  dead,  and  will  arise  no 
more. 

Fitzurse.  Nay,  have  we  still’d  him  ? 
What ! the  great  Archbishop  ! 
Does  he  breathe  ? No  ? 

De  Tracy.  No,  Reginald,  he  is  dead. 

[Storm  bursts.1 

De  Morville.  Will  the  earth  gape 
and  swallow  us  ? 

De  Brito.  The  deed’s  done.  — 

Away ! 

[De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitzurse, 
rush  out,  crying  “ King’s  men  ! ” 
De  Morville  follows  slowly. 
Flashes  of  lightning  thro ’ the 
Cathedral.  Rosamund  seen 
kneeling  by  the  body  of  Becket. 

1 A tremendous  thunderstorm  actually 
broke  over  the  Cathedral  as  the  murderers 
were  leaving  it. 


ADDITIONAL,  OCCASIONAL,  AND 
DISCAEDED  POEMS. 


[The  pieces  in  this  division  include  some  early  and  occasional  poems  omitted 
by  Mr.  Tennyson  from  the  latest  edition  of  his  collected  works  ; also  some 
of  his  recent  poems  which  do  not  appear  in  the  authors  edition.] 


THE  RINGLET. 


1. 

“ Your  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 

That  look  so  golden  gay, 

If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  one 
To  kiss  it  night  and  day, 

Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time, 
Will  turn  it  silver-gray  ; 

And  then  shall  I know  it  is  all  true 
gold 

To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of 
old, 

Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold, 
And  all  her  stars  decay.” 

“ Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  ; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  I.” 

2. 

“ My  ringlet,  my  ringlet, 

That  art  so  golden-gay, 

Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 
Can  turn  thee  silver-gray ; 

And  a lad  may  wink,  and  a girl  may 
hint, 

And  a fool  may  say  his  say ; 

Eor  my  doubts  and  fears  were  all 
amiss, 

And  I swear  henceforth  by  this  and 
this, 

That  a doubt  will  only  come  for  a kiss, 
And  a fear  to  be  kiss’d  away.” 


“ Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 

If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I.” 

n. 

1. 

0 Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

I kiss’d  you  night  and  day. 

And  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

You  still  are  golden-gay, 

But  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray  : 

For  what  is  this  which  now  I’m  told, 

1 that  took  you  for  true  gold, 

She  that  gave  you ’s  bought  and  sold, 
Sold,  sold. 

2. 

O Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

She  blush’d  a rosy  red, 

When  Ringlet,  0 Ringlet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  head. 

And  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said, 

“ Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 

If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I.” 

O fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie 
You  golden  lie. 

3. 

O Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

I count  you  much  to  blame, 

For  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 


S04 


TIMBUCTOO. 


You  put  me  much  to  shame, 

So  Ringlet,  0 Ringlet, 

I doom  you  to  the  flame. 

For  what  is  this  which  now  I learn, 
Has  given  all  my  faith  a turn  1 
Burn,  you  glossy  heretic,  burn, 
Burn,  burn. 


SONG. 

Lady,  let  the  rolling  drums 
Beat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior 
stands : 

Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy 
comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 

Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow, 

Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee  : 

Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the 
foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and 
thee. 


SONG. 

Home  they  brought  him  slain  with 
spears. 

They  brought  him  home  at  even- 
fall  : 

All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 
Echoes  in  his  empty  hall, 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 

The  sun  peep’d  in  from  open  field, 
The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 
Rode  upon  his  father’s  lance, 

Beat  upon  his  father’s  shield  — 

“ 0 hush,  my  joy,  my  sorrow.” 


TIMBUCTOO.1 

“ Deep  in  that  lion-haunted  inland  lies 
A mystic  city,  goal  of  high  emprise.” 

— Chapman. 

I stood  upon  the  Mountain  which 
o’erlooks 

1 A Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor’s 
Medal  at  the  Cambridge  Commencement, 
MDCCCXXIX.  By  A.  Tennyson,  of  Trin- 
ity College. 


The  narrow  seas,  whose  rapid  interval 
Parts  Afric  from  green  Europe,  when 
the  Sun 

Had  fall’n  below  th’  Atlantic,  and 
above 

The  silent  heavens  were  blench’d  with 
faery  light, 

Uncertain  whether  faery  light  or 
cloud, 

Flowing  Southward,  and  the  chasms 
of  deep,  deep  blue 

Slumber’d  unfathomable,  and  the 
stars 

Were  flooded  over  with  clear  glory 
and  pale. 

I gazed  upon  the  sheeny  coast  be- 
yond, 

There  where  the  Giant  of  old  Time 
infix’d 

The  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 
Long  time  erased  from  earth  : even  as 
the  Sea 

When  weary  of  wild  inroad  buildeth 
up 

Huge  mounds  whereby  to  stay  his 
yeasty  waves. 

And  much  I mused  on  legends  quaint 
and  old 

Which  whilome  won  the  hearts  of  all 
on  earth 

Toward  their  brightness,  ev’n  as  flame 
draws  air ; 

But  had  their  being  in  the  heart  of 
men 

As  air  is  th’  life  of  flame : and  thou 
wert  then 

A center’d  glory-circled  memory, 
Divinest  Atalantis,  whom  the  waves 
Have  buried  deep,  and  thou  of  later 
name, 

Imperial  Eldorado,  roof’d  with  gold  : 
Shadows  to  which,  despite  all  shocks 
of  change, 

All  on-set  of  capricious  accident, 

Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which 
would  not  die. 

As  when  in  some  great  city  where  the 
walls 

Shake,  and  the  streets  with  ghastly 
faces  thronged, 

Do  utter  forth  a subterranean  voice, 
Among  the  inner  columns  far  retired 


TIMBUCTOO. 


805 


At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 

Before  the  awful  genius  of  the  place 

Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep 
faith,  the  while 

Above  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips 
and  winks 

Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without: 

Nathless  she  ever  clasps  the  marble 
knees, 

Bathes  the  cold  hand  with  tears,  and 
gazeth  on 

Those  eyes  which  wear  no  light  but 
that  wherewith 

Her  phantasy  informs  them. 

Where  are  ye, 

Thrones  of  the  Western  wave,  fair 
Islands  green  ? 

Where  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your 
cedarn  glooms, 

The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills  ? 

Your  flowering  capes,  and  your  gold- 
sanded  bays 

Blown  round  with  happy  airs  of  odor- 
ous winds  1 

Where  are  the  infinite  ways,  which, 
seraph-trod, 

Wound  through  your  great  Elysian 
solitudes, 

Whose  lowest  deeps  were,  as  with  vis- 
ible love, 

Filled  with  Divine  effulgence,  circum- 
fused, 

Flowing  between  the  clear  and  pol- 
ished stems, 

And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald 
cones 

In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 

The  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints 
in  Heaven  1 

For  nothing  visible,  they  say,  had 
birth 

In  that  blest  ground,  but  it  was  played 
about 

With  its  peculiar  glory.  Then  I 
raised 

My  voice  and  cried,  “ Wide  Afric, 
doth  thy  Sun 

Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a city  as 
fair 

As  those  which  starred  the  night  o’ 
the  elder  world  ? 

Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  Timbuctoo 


A dream  as  frail  as  those  of  ancient 
time  ? ” 

A curve  of  whitening,  flashing, 
ebbing  light ! 

A rustling  of  white  wings  ! the  bright 
descent 

Of  a young  Seraph  ! and  he  stood  be- 
side me 

There  on  the  ridge,  and  looked  into 
my  face 

With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs, 

So  that  with  hasty  motion  I did 
veil 

My  vision  with  both  hands,  and  saw 
before  me 

Such  colored  spots  as  dance  athwart 
the  eyes 

Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday 
Sun. 

Girt  with  a zone  of  flashing  gold  be- 
neath 

His  breast  and  compassed  round  about 
his  brow 

With  triple  arch  of  everchanging 
bows, 

And  circled  with  the  glory  of  living 
light 

And  alternation  of  all  hues,  he  stood. 

“ O child  of  man,  why  muse  you 
here  alone 

Upon  the  Mountain,  on  the  dreams  of 
old 

Which  filled  the  earth  with  passing 
loveliness, 

Which  flung  strange  music  on  the 
howling  winds, 

And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Para- 
dise ? 

Thy  sense  is  clogged  with  dull  mortal- 
ity : 

Open  thine  eyes  and  see.” 

I looked,  but  not 

Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful 

With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the 
light 

Of  the  great  Angel  Mind  which 
looked  from  out 

The  starry  glowing  of  his  restless 
eyes. 

I felt  my  soul  grow  mighty,  and  my 
spirit 

With  supernatural  excitation  bound 


806 


TIME  UC  TOO. 


Within  me,  and  my  mental  eye  grew 
large 

With  such  a vast  circumference  of 
thought, 

That  in  my  vanity  I seemed  to 
stand 

Upon  the  outward  verge  and  bound 
alone 

Of  full  beatitude.  Each  failing 
sense, 

As  with  a momentary  flash  of  light, 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.  I 
saw 

The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the 
dark  earth, 

The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air, 
The  Moon’s  white  cities,  and  the  opal 
width 

Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver 
heights 

Unvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud, 
And  the  unsounded,  undescendeddepth 
Of  her  black  hollows.  The  clear 
galaxy 

Shorn  of  its  hoary  lustre,  wonderful, 
Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  points 
of  light, 

Blaze  within  blaze,  an  unimagined 
depth 

And  harmony  of  planet-girded  suns 
And  moon-encircled  planets,  wheel  in 
wheel, 

Arched  the  wan  sapphire.  Nay  — the 
hum  of  men 

Or  other  things  talking  in  unknown 
tongues, 

And  notes  of  busy  life  in  distant 
worlds 

Beat  like  a far  wave  on  my  anxious 
ear. 

A maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrill- 
ing thoughts, 

Involving  and  embracing  each  with 
each, 

Rapid  as  fire,  inextricably  linked, 
Expanding  momently  with  every  sight 
And  sound  which  struck  the  palpi- 
tating sense, 

The  issue  of  strong  impulse,  hurried 
through 

The  riven  rapt  brain  ; as  when  in  some 
large  lake 


From  pressure  of  descendent  crags, 
which  lapse 

Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  par- 
ent slope 

At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridged  with  restless  and  increasing 
spheres 

Which  break  upon  each  other,  each 
th’  effect 

Of  separate  impulse,  but  more  fleet 
and  strong 

Than  its  precursor,  till  the  eye  in 
vain 

Amid  the  wild  unrest  of  swimming 
shade 

Dappled  with  hollow  and  alternate 
rise 

Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 

I know  not  if  I shape 
These  things  with  accurate  similitude 
From  visible  objects,  for  but  dimly 
now. 

Less  vivid  than  a half-forgotten  dream, 
The  memory  of  that  mental  excellence 
Comes  o’er  me,  and  it  may  be  I en- 
twine 

The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  clearness,  yet  it  seems 
to  me 

As  even  then  the  torrent  of  quick 
thought 

Absorbed  me  from  the  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fleetness.  Where  is  he, 
that  borne 

Adown  the  sloping  of  an  arrowy 
stream, 

Could  link  his  shallop  to  the  fleeting 
edge, 

And  muse  midway  with  philosophic 
calm 

Upon  the  wondrous  laws  which  regu- 
late 

The  fierceness  of  the  bounding  ele- 
ment ? 

My  thoughts  which  long  had  grov- 
elled in  the  slime 

Of  this  dull  world,  like  dusky  worms 
which  house 

Beneath  unshaken  waters,  but  at  once 
Upon  some  earth-awakening  day  of 
Spring 


TIMRUCTOO. 


807 


Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and 
aloft 

Winnow  the  purple,  bearing  on  both 
sides 

Double  display  of  star-lit  wings,  which 
burn 

Fan-like  and  fibred  with  intensest 
bloom  ; 

Even  so  my  thoughts  erewhile  so  low, 
now  felt 

Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 
To  bear  them  upward  through  the 
trackless  fields 

Of  undefined  existence  far  and  free. 

Then  first  within  the  South  me- 
thought  I saw 

A wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal 
pile 

Of  rampart  upon  rampart,  dome  on 
dome, 

Illimitable  range  of  battlement 
On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial 
height 

Of  canopy  o’ercanopied. 

Behind 

In  diamond  light  up  spring  the  daz- 
zling peaks 

Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  earth’s 
As  heaven  than  earth  is  fairer.  Each 
aloft 

Upon  his  narrowed  eminence  bore 
globes 

Of  wheeling  suns,  or  stars,  or  sem- 
blances 

Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 
Of  radiance.  But  the  glory  of  the 
place 

Stood  out  a pillared  front  of  burnished 
gold, 

Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 
Or  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 
Two  doors  of  blinding  brilliance,  where 
no  gaze 

Might  rest,  stood  open,  and  the  eye 
could  scan, 

Through  length  of  porch  and  valve 
and  boundless  hall, 

Part  of  a throne  of  fiery  flame,  where- 
from 

The  snowy  skirting  of  a garment  hung, 
And  glimpse  of  multitude  of  multi- 
tudes 


That  ministered  around  it  — if  I saw 

These  things  distinctly,  for  my  human 
brain 

Staggered  beneath  the  vision,  and 
thick  night 

Came  down  upon  my  eyelids,  and  I 
fell. 

With  ministering  hand  he  raised  me 
up: 

Then  with  a mournful  and  ineffable 
smile, 

Which  but  to  look  on  for  a moment 
filled 

My  eyes  with  irresistible  sweet  tears, 

In  accents  of  majestic  melody, 

Like  a swoln  river’s  gushings  in  still 
night 

Mingled  with  floating  music,  thus  he 
spake : 

“ There  is  no  mightier  Spirit  than 
I to  sway 

The  heart  of  man ; and  teach  him  to 
attain 

By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable; 

And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty 
stair 

Whose  landing-place  is  wrapt  about 
with  clouds 

Of  glory  of  heaven.1  With  earliest 
light  of  Spring, 

And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  Summer- 
tide, 

And  in  red  Autumn  when  the  winds 
are  wild 

With  gambols,  and  when  full-voiced 
Winter  roofs 

The  headland  with  inviolate  white 
snow, 

I play  about  his  heart  a thousand 
ways, 

Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  his 
ears 

With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and 
wood,  — 

Of  winds  which  tell  of  waters,  and  of 
waters 

Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the 
wind  — 

And  win  him  unto  me : and  few  there 
be 

1 “Be  ye  perfect,  even  as  your  father  in 

heaven  is  perfect.” 


808 


THE  “HO IV”  AND  THE  “ WHY: 


So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt 
and  known 

A higher  than  they  see  : they  with 
dim  eyes 

Behold  me  darkling.  Lo ! I have 
given  thee 

To  understand  my  presence,  and  to 
feel 

My  fulness : I have  filled  thy  lips 
with  power. 

I have  raised  thee  nigher  to  the 
spheres  of  heaven, 

Man’s  first,  last  home  : and  thou  with 
ravished  sense 

Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing 
from 

The  illimitable  years.  I am  the 
Spirit, 

The  permeating  life  which  courseth 
through 

All  th’  intricate  and  labyrinthine 
veins 

Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which, 
outspread 

With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and 
clusters  rare, 

Keacheth  to  every  corner  under 
heaven, 

Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of 
truth; 

So  that  men’s  hopes  and  fears  take 
refuge  in 

The  fragrance  of  its  complicated 
glooms, 

And  cool  impleached  twilights.  Child 
of  man, 

Seest  thou  yon  river,  wdiose  translucent 
wave, 

Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  wind- 
eth  through 

The  argent  streets  o’  the  city,  imaging 

The  soft  inversion  of  her  tremulous 
domes, 

Her  gardens  frequent  with  the  stately 
palm, 

Her  pagods  hung  with  music  of  sweet 
bells, 

Her  obelisks  of  ranged  chrysolite, 

Minarets  and  towers  ? Lo  ! how  he 
passeth  by, 

And  gulphs  himself  in  sands,  as  not 
enduring 


To  carry  through  the  world  those 
waves,  which  bore 

The  reflex  of  my  city  in  their  depths. 

Oh  city : oh  latest  throne ! where  I 
was  raised 

To  be  a mystery  of  loveliness 

Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  is  well-nigh 
come 

When  I must  render  up  this  glorious 
home 

To  keen  Discovery ; soon  yon  brilliant 
towers 

Shall  darken  with  the  waving  of  her 
wand ; 

Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  into 
huts, 

Black  specks  amid  a waste  of  dreary 
sand, 

Low-built,  mud-walled,  barbarian  set- 
tlements. 

How  changed  from  this  fair  city ! ” 

Thus  far  the  Spirit, 

Then  parted  heaven-ward  on  the 
wing : and  I 

Was  left  alone  on  Calpe,  and  the  moon 

Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  all  was 
dark! 


THE  “HOW”  AND  THE  “WHY.” 


I am  any  man’s  suitor, 

If  any  will  be  my  tutor  : 

Some  say  this  life  is  pleasant, 
Some  think  it  speedeth  fast. 

In  time  there  is  no  present, 

In  eternity  no  future, 

In  eternity  no  past. 

We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  born,  we  die, 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the 
why  ? 

The  bulrush  nods  unto  its  brother. 

The  wheatears  whisper  to  each  other : 

What  is  it  they  say?  what  do  they 
there  ? 

Why  two  and  two  make  four?  why 
round  is  not  square  ? 

Why  the  rock  stands  still,  and  the 
light  clouds  fly  ? 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 


809 


Why  the  heavy  oak  groans,  and  the 
white  willows  sigh  7 

Why  deep  is  not  high,  and  high  is  not 
deep  'i 

Whether  we  wake,  or  whether  we 
sleep  ? 

Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die  1 

How  you  are  you  1 why  I am  1 1 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the 
why  ? 

The  world  is  somewhat;  it  goes  on 
somehow : 

But  what  is  the  meaning  of  then  and 
note  ? 

I feel  there  is  something ; but  how 
and  what  1 

I know  there  is  somewhat : but  what 
and  why  'i 

I cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  be  I. 

The  little  bird  pipeth  — “ why  1 
why  'i  ” 

In  the  summer  woods  when  the  sun 
falls  low, 

And  the  great  bird  sits  on  the  opposite 
bough, 

And  stares  in  his  face,  and  shouts 
“ how  ? how  \ ” 

And  the  black  owl  scuds  down  the 
mellow  twilight, 

And  chants  “ how  ? how  1 ” the  whole 
of  the  night. 

Why  the  life  goes  when  the  blood  is 
spilt  ? 

What  the  life  is  1 where  the  soul 
may  lie  1 

Why  a church  is  with  a steeple  built : 

And  a house  with  a chimney-pot  1 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the 
what  ? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  what  and 
the  why  l 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 

His  eyes  in  eclipse, 

Palecold  his  lips, 

The  light  of  his  hopes  unfed, 
Mute  his  tongue, 

His  bow  unstrung 


With  the  tears  he  hath  shed, 
Backward  drooping  his  graceful  head, 
Love  is  dead ; 

His  last  arrow  is  sped  ; 

He  hath  not  another  dart; 

Go  — carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed ; 
Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart  — 
Love  is  dead. 

Oh,  truest  love  ! art  thou  forlorn, 

And  unrevenged  'i  thy  pleasant 
wiles 

Forgotten,  and  thine  innocent 

joy  ? 

Shall  hollowhearted  apathy, 

The  cruelest  form  of  perfect  scorn, 
With  languor  of  most  hateful 
smiles, 

For  ever  write, 

In  the  withered  light 
Of  the  tearless  eye, 

An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy  1 
No ! sooner  she  herself  shall  die. 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall, 
Nor  the  round  sun  shine  that  shineth 
to  all ; 

Her  light  shall  into  darkness 
change ; 

For  her  the  green  grass  shall  not 
spring, 

Nor  the  rivers  flow,  nor  the  sweet 
birds  sing, 

Till  love  have  his  full  revenge. 


TO . 

Sainted  Juliet ! dearest  name  ! 

If  to  love  be  life  alone, 
Divinest  Juliet, 

I love  thee,  and  live ; and  yet 
Love  unreturned  is  like  the  fragrant 
flame 

Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 
Offered  to  gods  upon  an  altar- 
throne  ; 

My  heart  is  lighted  at  thine  eyes, 

Changed  into  fire,  and  blown  about 
with  sighs. 


810 


SONG. 


SONG. 


I’  the  glooming  light 
Of  middle  night 
So  cold  and  white. 

Worn  Sorrow  sits  by  the  moaning 
wave, 

Beside  her  are  laid 
Her  mattock  and  spade, 

For  she  had  half  delved  her  own  deep 
grave. 

Alone  she  is  there : 

The  white  clouds  drizzle : her  hair 
falls  loose. 

Her  shoulders  are  bare ; 

Her  tears  are  mixed  with  the  beaded 
dews. 


ii. 

Death  standeth  by ; 

She  will  not  die 

With  glaze'd  eye 

She  looks  at  her  grave  : she  cannot 
sleep  ; 

Ever  alone 

She  maketh  her  moan : 

She  cannot  speak  : she  can  only  weep, 

For  she  will  not  hope. 

The  thick  snow  falls  on  her  flake  by 
flake, 

The  dull  wave  mourns  down 
the  slope, 

The  world  will  not  change,  and  her 
heart  will  not  break. 


SONG. 


The  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock 
Have  voices  sweet  and  clear ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 

They  from  the  blosmy  brere 
Call  to  the  fleeting  year, 

If  that  he  would  them  hear 
And  stay. 

Alas  ! that  one  so  beautiful 
Should  have  so  dull  an  ear. 


ii. 

Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  call. 
But  thou  art  deaf  as  death ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 

When  thy  light  perisheth 
That  from  thee  issueth, 

Our  life  evanisheth : 

Oh  ! stay. 

Alas  ! that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a breath  ? 

hi. 

Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 
Thou  comest,  as  a king, 

All  in  the  bloome'd  May. 

Thy  golden  largess  fling, 

And  longer  hear  us  sing ; 

Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing, 
Yet  stay. 

Alas ! that  eyes  so  full  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering ! 

IV. 

Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,1 
All  in  the  bloomed  May. 

We  pri’thee  pass  not  on  ; 

If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun, 
Delight  is  with  thee  gone. 

Oh!  stay. 

Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres. 
We  pri’thee  pass  not  on. 


SONG. 


Every  day  hath  its  night*. 

Every  night  its  morn : 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Winged  hours  are  born; 

Ah  ! welaway ! 

Seasons  flower  and  fade ; 

Golden  calm  and  storm 
Mingle  day  by  day. 

There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a shade  — 

Ah!  welaway! 

1 “ His  crispfe  hair  in  ringis  was  yronne.” 
— Chaucer,  King’s  Tale. 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 


811 


ii. 

When  we  laugh,  and  our  mirth 
Apes  the  happy  vein, 

We’re  so  kin  to  earth, 

Pleasaunce  fathers  pain  — 
Ah ! welaway ! 

Madness  laugheth  loud : 
Laughter  bringeth  tears  : 
Eyes  are  worn  away 
Till  the  end  of  fears 
Cometh  in  the  shroud. 

Ah  1 welaway ! 

hi. 

All  is  change,  woe  or  weal ; 

Joy  is  Sorrow’s  brother ; 
Grief  and  gladness  steal 
Symbols  of  each  other; 

Ah  ! welaway ! 

Larks  in  heaven’s  cope 
Sing : the  culvers  mourn 
All  the  livelong  day. 

Be  not  all  forlorn  : 

Let  us  weep  in  hope  — 

Ah ! welaway ! 


HEEO  TO  LEANDER. 

Oh  go  not  yet,  my  love, 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast; 

The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven 
above, 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and 
fast. 

Oh ! kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again, 
Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last. 

Oh  kiss  me  ere  we  part ; 

Grow  closer  to  my  heart. 

My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the 
bosom  of  the  main. 

O joy ! O bliss  of  blisses  ! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 

Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses, 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 

Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses, 

And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy 
limbs, 


So  gladly  doth  it  stir; 

Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness 
swims. 

I have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleas- 
ant myrrh  ; 

Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  wander  hence  to- 
night, 

I’ll  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-night  the  roaring  brine 
Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses  ; 
The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  blue  and  calm  ; 

And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with 
a kiss  as  soft  as  mine. 

No  Western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  foaming  sea, 
And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 
My  soul  must  follow  thee ! 

Oh  go  not  yet,  my  love, 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low ; 

The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 
Those  marble  steps  below. 

The  turretstairs  are  wet 
That  lead  into  the  sea. 

Leander!  go  not  yet. 

The  pleasant  stars  have  set : 

Oh  ! go  not,  go  not  yet, 

Or  I will  follow  thee. 


THE  MYSTIC. 

Angels  have  talked  with  him,  and 
showed  him  thrones : 

Ye  knew  him  not;  he  was  not  one  of 

ye. 

Ye  scorned  him  with  an  undiscerning 
scorn : 

Ye  could  not  read  the  marvel  in  his 
eye, 

The  still  serene  abstraction : he  hath 
felt 

The  vanities  of  after  and  before  ; 

Albeit,  his  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 

The  stern  experiences  of  converse 
lives, 

The  linked  woes  of  many  a fiery 
change 

Had  purified,  and  chastened,  and 
made  free. 


812 


THE  GRASSHOPPER . 


Always  there  stood  before  him,  night 
and  day, 

Of  wayward  varycolored  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene, 
Colossal,  without  form,  or  sense,  or 
sound, 

Dim  shadows  but  unwaning  presences 
F ourf aced  to  four  corners  of  the  sky : 
And  yet  again,  three  shadows,  front- 
ing one, 

One  forward,  one  respectant,  three 
but  one ; 

And  yet  again,  again  and  evermore, 
For  the  two  first  were  not,  but  only 
seemed, 

One  shadow  in  the  midst  of  a great 
light, 

One  reflex  from  eternity  on  time, 

One  mighty  countenance  of  perfect 
calm, 

Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 

For  him  the  silent  congregated  hours, 
Daughters  of  time,  divinely  tall,  be- 
neath 

Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shin- 
ing eyes 

Smiling  a godlike  smile  (the  innocent 
light 

Of  earliest  youth  pierced  through 
and  through  with  all 
Keen  knowledges  of  low-embowed  eld) 
Upheld,  and  ever  hold  aloft  the  cloud 
Which  droops  lowhung  on  either  gate 
of  life, 

Both  birth  and  death : he  in  the  cen- 
tre fixt, 

Saw  far  on  each  side  through  the 
grated  gates 

Most  pale  and  clear  and  lovely  dis- 
tances. 

He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 
Remaining  from  the  body,  and  apart 
In  intellect  and  power  and  will,  hath 
heard 

Time  flowing  in  the  middle  of  the 
night, 

And  all  things  creeping  to  a day  of 
doom. 

How  could  ye  know  him  ? Ye  were 
yet  within 

The  narrower  circle  : he  had  wellnigh 
reached 


The  last,  which  with  a region  of  white 
flame, 

Pure  without  heat,  into  a larger  air 
Upburning,  and  an  ether  of  black 
blue, 

Investeth  and  ingirds  all  other  lives. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


Voice  of  the  summerwind, 

Joy  of  the  summerplain, 

Life  of  the  summerhours, 

Carol  clearly,  bound  along. 

No  Tithon  thou  as  poets  feign 
(Shame  fall  ’em  they  are  deaf  and 
blind), 

But  an  insect  lithe  and  strong, 
Bowing  the  seeded  summer  flowers. 
Prove  their  falsehood  and  thy  quar- 
rel, 

Vaulting  on  thine  airy  feet. 

Clap  thy  shielded  sides  and  carol, 
Carol  clearly,  chirrup  sweet. 
Thou  art  a mailed  warrior  in  youth 
and  strength  complete ; 

Armed  cap-a-pie 
Full  fair  to  see  ; 

Unknowing  fear, 

Undreading  loss, 

A gallant  cavalier, 

Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche, 

In  sunlight  and  in  shadow, 

The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 

ii. 

I would  dwell  with  thee, 

Merry  grasshopper, 

Thou  art  so  glad  and  free, 

And  as  light  as  air ; 

Thou  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears, 

Thou  hast  no  compt  of  years, 

No  withered  immortality, 

But  a short  youth  sunny  and  free. 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  joy  is  over, 

A summer  of  loud  song, 

And  slumbers  in  the  clover. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil 
In  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel, 


LOVE,  PRIDE , AND  FORGETFULNESS. 


813 


In  thy  heat  of  summer  pride, 
Pushing  the  thick  roots  aside 
Of  the  singing  flowered  grasses, 
That  brush  thee  with  their  silken 
tresses  ? 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil, 
Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 
In  and  out  the  emerald  glooms, 
Ever  leaping,  ever  singing, 

Lighting  on  the  golden  blooms  ? 


LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGET- 
FULNESS. 

Ere  yet  my  heart  was  sweet  Love’s 
tomb, 

Love  labored  honey  busily. 

I was  the  hive,  and  Love  the  bee, 

My  heart  the  honeycomb. 

One  very  dark  and  chilly  night 
Pride  came  beneath  and  held  a light. 

The  cruel  vapors  went  through  all, 
Sweet  Love  was  withered  in  his  cell ; 
Pride  took  Love’s  sweets,  and  by  a 
spell 

Did  change  them  into  gall ; 

And  Memory,  though  fed  by  Pride, 
Did  wax  so  thin  on  gall, 

Awhile  she  scarcely  lived  at  all. 
What  marvel  that  she  died  1 


CHORUS. 

IN  AN  UNPUBLISHED  DRAMA,  WRITTEN 
VERY  EARLY. 

The  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven, 
The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea, 

The  fountain-pregnant  mountains 
riven 

To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy, 

By  secret  fire  and  midnight  storms 
That  wander  round  their  windy 
cones, 

The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 
Of  living  things,  the  wondrous 
tones 


Of  man  and  beast  are  full  of 
strange 

Astonishment  and  boundless 
change 

The  day,  the  diamonded  night, 

The  echo,  feeble  child  of  sound, 
The  heavy  thunder’s  griding  might, 
The  herald  lightning’s  starry  bound, 
The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom, 
The  naked  summer’s  glowing  birth, 
The  troublous  autumn’s  sallow  gloom, 
The  hoarhead  winter  paving  earth 

With  sheeny  white,  are  full  of 
strange 

Astonishment  and  boundless 
change. 

Each  sun  which  from  the  centre  flings 
Grand  music  and  redundant  fire, 
The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings, 
The  murm’rous  planets’  rolling 
choir, 

The  globefilled  arch  that,  cleaving  air, 
Lost  in  its  own  effulgence  sleeps, 
The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare, 
And  thunder  through  the  sapphire 
deeps 

In  wayward  strength,  are  full  of 
strange 

Astonishment  and  boundless 
change. 


LOST  HOPE. 

You  cast  to  ground  the  hope  which 
once  was  mine : 

But  did  the  while  your  harsh  decree 
deplore, 

Embalming  with  sweet  tears  the 
vacant  shrine, 

My  heart,  where  Hope  had  been 
and  was  no  more. 

So  on  an  oaken  sprout 
A goodly  acorn  grew; 

But  winds  from  heaven  shook  the 
acorn  out, 

And  filled  the  cup  with  dew. 


814 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 


THE  TEARS  OF  HEAVEN. 

Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all 
night  till  morn, 

In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to 
weep, 

Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state 
forlorn 

With  self-wrought  evil  of  unnum- 
bered years, 

And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor 
reap. 

And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back 
her  tears 

Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and 
deep, 

And  showering  down  the  glory  of 
lightsome  day, 

Smiles  on  the  earth’s  worn  brow  to 
win  her  if  she  may. 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 

O maiden,  fresher  than  the  first  green 
leaf 

With  which  the  fearful  springtide 
flecks  the  lea, 

Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I said  to  thee 

That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bit- 
ter grief 

Doth  hold  the  other  half  in  sovranty. 

Thou  art  my  heart’s  sun  in  love’s 
crystalline  : 

Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thou  canst 
not  shine : 

Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  heart, 
and  thine 

My  heart’s  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my 
heart, 

Issue  of  its  own  substance,  my  heart’s 
night 

Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  thy 
light, 

Allpowerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art. 

Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substance- 
less, 

Then  might  thy  rays  pass,  through  to 
the  other  side, 

So  swiftly,  that  they  nowhere  would 
abide, 


But  lose  themselves  in  utter  empti- 
ness. 

Half-light,  half-shadow,  let  my  spirit 
sleep ; 

They  never  learned  to  love  who  never 
knew  to  weep. 


TO  A LADY  SLEEPING. 

O thou  whose  fringed  lids  I gaze  upon, 

Through  whose  dim  brain  the  winge'd 
dreams  are  borne, 

Unroof  the  shrines  of  clearest  vision, 

In  honor  of  the  silver-flecked  morn  ; 

Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  vir- 
gin light 

Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dream- 
ful dark. 

Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night, 

Though  long  ago  listening  the  poised 
lark, 

With  eyes  dropt  downward  through 
the  blue  serene, 

Over  heaven’s  parapet  the  angels  lean. 


SONNET. 

Could  I outwear  my  present  state  of 
woe 

With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i’  the 
spring 

Hues  of  fresh  youth,  and  mightily 
outgrow 

The  wan  dark  coil  of  faded  suffer- 
ing— 

Forth  in  the  pride  of  beauty  issuing 

A sheeny  snake,  the  light  of  vernal 
bowers, 

Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots 
of  flowers 

And  watered  valleys  where  the  young 
birds  sing ; 

Could  I thus  hope  my  lost  delight’s 
renewing, 

I straightly  would  command  the  tears 
to  creep 

From  my  charged  lids ; but  inwardly 
I weep ; 

Some  vital  heat  as  yet  my  heart  is 
wooing : 


SONNETS. 


815 


That  to  itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen 
rain 

From  my  cold  eyes,  and  melted  it 
again. 


SONNET. 

Though  Night  hath  climbed  her  peak 
of  highest  noon, 

And  bitter  blasts  the  screaming  au- 
tumn whiit, 

All  night  through  archways  of  the 
bridged  pearl, 

And  portals  of  pure  silver,  walks  the 
moon. 

Walk  on,  my  soul,  nor  crouch  to  agony, 

Turn  cloud  to  light,  and  bitterness  to 

joy, 

And  dross  to  gold  with  glorious 
alchemy, 

Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world’s 
annoy. 

Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  sor- 
row and  ruth 

That  roar  beneath  ; unshaken  peace 
hath  won  thee ; 

So  shalt  thou  pierce  the  woven  glooms 
of  truth  ; 

So  shall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be 
on  thee ; 

So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body’s 
youth, 

An  honorable  eld  shall  come  upon 
thee. 


SONNET. 

Shall  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child 
of  Good, 

Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind, 

Thronging  the  cells  of  the  diseased 
mind, 

Hateful  with  hanging  cheeks,  a with- 
ered brood, 

Though  hourly  pastured  on  the  salient 
blood  ? 

Oh  ! that  the  wind  which  bloweth  cold 
or  heat 

Would  shatter  and  o’erbear  the  bra- 
zen beat 


Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  soli- 
tude 

Of  middle  space  confound  them,  and 
blow  back 

Their  wild  cries  down  their  cavern 
throats,  and  slake 

With  points  of  blastborne  hail  their 
heated  eyne  ! 

So  their  wan  limbs  no  more  might 
come  between 

The  moon  and  the  moon’s  reflex  in 
the  night, 

Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar 
light.  • 


SONNET. 

The  pallid  thunderstricken  sigh  for 
gain, 

Down  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float, 

And  sailing  on  Pactolus  in  a boat, 

Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  wistfully 
they  strain 

Weak  eyes  upon  the  glistening  sands 
that  robe 

The  understream.  The  wise,  could 
he  behold 

Cathedralled  caverns  of  thickribbed 
gold 

And  branching  silvers  of  the  central 
globe, 

Would  marvel  from  so  beautiful  a 
sight 

How  scorn  and  ruin,  pain  and  hate 
could  flow. 

But  Hatred  in  a gold  cave  sits  below ; 

Pleached  with  her  hair,  in  mail  of 
argent  light 

Shot  into  gold,  a snake  her  forehead 
clips, 

And  skins  the  color  from  her  trem- 
bling lips. 


LOVE. 

i. 

Thou,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undy- 
ing love, 

Albeit  we  gaze  not  on  thy  glories  near, 
Before  the  face  of  God  didst  breathe 
and  move, 


816 


ENGLISH  WAR-SONG. 


Though  night  and  pain  and  ruin  and 
death  reign  here. 

Thou  foldest,  like  a golden  atmos- 
phere, 

The  very  throne  of  the  eternal  God : 

Passing  through  thee  the  edicts  of  his 
fear 

Are  mellowed  into  music,  borne  abroad 

By  the  loud  winds,  though  they  up- 
rend  the  sea, 

Even  from  its  central  deeps:  thine 
empery 

Is  over  all ; thou  wilt  not  brook 
• eclipse ; 

Thou  goest  and  returnest  to  His  lips 

Like  lightning  : thou  dost  ever  brood 
above 

The  silence  of  all  hearts,  unutterable 
Love. 

ii. 

To  know  thee  is  all  wisdom,  and  old 
age 

Is  but  to  know  thee : dimly  we  behold 
thee 

Athwart  the  veils  of  evils  which  infold 
thee. 

We  beat  upon  our  aching  hearts  in 
rage ; 

We  cry  for  thee ; we  deem  the  world 
thy  tomb. 

As  dwellers  in  lone  planets  look  upon 

The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun, 

Hollowed  in  awful  chasms  of  wheel- 
ing gloom, 

Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  on 
thee. 

Come,  thou  of  many  crowns,  white- 
robed  love, 

Oh ! rend  the  veil  in  twain  : all  men 
adore  thee ; 

Heaven  crieth  after  thee  ; earth  wait- 
eth  for  thee  ; 

Breathe  on  thy  winged  throne,  and  it 
shall  move 

In  music  and  in  light  o’er  land  and  sea. 
hi. 

And  now — methinks  I gaze  upon 
thee  now, 

As  on  a serpent  in  his  agonies 


Awestricken  Indians  ; what  time  laid 
low 

And  crushing  the  thick  fragrant  reeds 
he  lies, 

When  the  new  year  warmbreathed  on 
the  Earth, 

Waiting  to  light  him  with  her  pur- 
ple skies, 

Calls  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise. 

Already  with  the  pangs  of  a new  birth 

Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  con- 
vulsed eyes,  % 

And  in  his  writhings  awful  hues  begin 

To  wander  down  his  sable-sheeny 
sides, 

Like  light  on  troubled  waters : from 
within 

Anon  he  rusheth  forth  with  merry  din, 

And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength 
abides ; 

And  from  his  brows  a crown  of  living 
light 

Looks  through  the  thickstemmed 
woods  by  day  and  night. 


ENGLISH  WAR-SONG. 

Who  fears  to  die?  Who  fears 
to  die  ! 

Is  there  any  here  who  fears  to  die  ? 

He  shall  find  what  he  fears ; and  none 
shall  grieve 

For  the  man  who  fears  to  die  ; 

But  the  withering  scorn  of  the  many 
shall  cleave 

To  the  man  who  fears  to  die. 

Chorus.  — Shout  for  England ! 

Ho  ! for  England  ! 

George  for  England ! 

Merry  England! 

England  for  aye ! 

The  hollow  at  heart  shall  crouch 
forlorn, 

He  shall  eat  the  bread  of  common 
scorn  ; 

It  shall  be  steeped  in  the  salt,  salt  tear, 

Shall  be  steeped  in  his  own  salt 
tear: 

Far  better,  far  better  he  never  were 
born 


NATIONAL  SONG. 


817 


Than  to  shame  merry  England 
here. 

Chorus.  — Shout  for  England  ! etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient 
enemy ; 

Hark ! he  shouteth  — the  ancient 
enemy ! 

On  the  ridge  of  the  hill  his  banners  rise ; 

They  stream  like  fire  in  the  skies ; 

Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 
Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 

Chorus.  — Shout  for  England  ! etc. 

Come  along ! we  alone  of  the 
earth  are  free ; 

The  child  in  our  cradles  is  bolder 
than  he ; 

For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of 
slaves  1 

Oh ! where  is  the  strength  of 
slaves  ? 

He  is  weak ! we  are  strong : he  a 
slave,  we  are  free. 

Come  along ! we  will  dig  their 
graves. 

Chorus.  — Shout  for  England ! etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy, 

Will  he  dare  to  battle  with  the 
free  ? 

Spur  along  ! spur  amain ! charge  to 
the  fight : 

Charge  ! charge  to  the  fight ! 

Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high ! 

Shout  for  God  and  our  right ! 

Chorus.  — Shout  for  England ! etc. 


NATIONAL  SONG. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 
Where’er  the  light  of  day  be ; 

There  are  no  hearts  like  English 
hearts, 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 
Where’er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 


Chorus. 

For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive 
’em, 

For  the  devil  a whit  we  heed  ’em  : 
As  for  the  French,  God  speed  ’em 
Unto  their  heart’s  desire, 

And  the  merry  devil  drive  ’em 
Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 

Full  Chorus. 

Our  glory  is  our  freedom, 

We  lord  it  o’er  the  sea  ; 

We  are  the  sons  of  freedom, 

We  are  free. 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 
Where’er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives, 
So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England, 
Where’er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids, 
So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

Chorus.  — For  the  French,  etc. 


DUALISMS. 

Two  bees  within  a crystal  flowerbell 
rocked, 

Hum  a lovelay  to  the  westwind  at 
noontide. 

Both  alike,  they  buzz  together, 

Both  alike,  they  hum  together, 

Through  and  through  the  flowered 
heather. 

Where  in  a creeping  cove  the  wave 
unshocked 

Lays  itself  calm  and  wide. 

Over  a stream  two  birds  of  glanc- 
ing feather 

Do  woo  each  other,  carolling 
together. 

Both  alike,  they  glide  together, 
Side  by  side ; 

Both  alike,  they  sing  together, 

Arching  blue-glossed  necks  beneath 
the  purple  weather. 

Two  children  lovelier  than  Love  adown 
the  lea  are  singing, 


818 


TO . 


As  they  gambol,  lilygarlands  ever 
stringing : 

Both  in  blosmwhite  silk  are 
frocked : 

Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 

Under  a summervault  of  golden 
weather ; 

Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 
Side  by  side, 

MidMay’s  darling  golden 
locked, 

Summer’s  tanling  diamond 
eyed. 


01  peovres. 

i. 

All  thoughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreams 
are  true, 

All  visions  wild  and  strange ; 

Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 
Unto  himself.  All  truth  is  change, 
All  men  do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 
Have  faith  in  that  they  dream  : 

For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 
And  all  things  flow  like  a stream. 

ii. 

There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  pause, 
Nor  good  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor 
shade, 

Nor  essence  nor  eternal  laws  : 

For  nothing  is,  but  all  is  made. 

But  if  I dream  that  all  these  are, 
They  are  to  me  for  that  I dream ; 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 
And  all  things  flow  like  a stream. 

Argal  — this  very  opinion  is  only 
true  relatively  to  the  flowing  philoso- 
phers. 


TO 


All  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 
Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  ; 

I have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise, 
But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 


ii. 

Shake  hands,  my  friend,  across  the 
brink 

Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I go. 
Shake  hands  once  more:  I cannot 
sink 

So  far  — far  down,  but  I shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 

hi. 

When,  in  the  darkness  over  me, 

The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape, 
Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress  tree, 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful 
crape, 

But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

IV. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery 
gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 

And  through  damp  holts, newflushed 
with  May, 

Ring  sudden  laughters  of  the  Jay ; 
v. 

Then  let  wise  Nature  wrork  her  will, 
And  on  my  clay  the  darnels  grow. 
Come  only  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow, 

VI. 

If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother’s  smile 
Undimmed,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing  : 
Then  cease,  my  friend,  a little  while, 
That  I may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  song,  the  boast  of  spring. 

VII. 

Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of  bubbling  wells  that  fret  the 
stones 

(If  any  sense  in  me  remains), 

Thy  words  will  be;  thy  cheerful 
tones 

As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 


SONNETS. 


819 


SONNETS. 


0 beauty,  passing  beauty ! sweetest 

Sweet ! 

How  canst  thou  let  me  waste  my 
youth  in  sighs  ? 

1 only  ask  to  sit  beside  thy  feet. 

Thou  knowest  I dare  not  look  into 

thine  eyes. 

Might  I but  kiss  thy  hand!  I dare 
not  fold 

My  arms  about  thee — scarcely 
dare  to  speak. 

And  nothing  seems  to  me  so  wild  and 
bold, 

As  with  one  kiss  to  touch  thy 
blessed  cheek. 

Methinks  if  I should  kiss  thee,  no 
control 

Within  the  thrilling  brain  could 
keep  afloat 

The  subtle  spirit.  Even  while  I 
spoke, 

The  bare  word  Kiss  hath  made  my 
inner  soul 

To  tremble  like  a lutestring,  ere  the 
note 

Hath  melted  in  the  silence  that  it 
broke. 

ii. 

But  were  I loved,  as  I desire  to  be, 

What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of 
the  earth, 

And  range  of  evil  between  death  and 
birth, 

That  I should  fear,  — if  I were  loved 
by  thee  % 

All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of 
pain 

Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave, 
if  thou  wert  mine, 

As  I have  heard  that,  somewhere  in 
the  main, 

Fresh-water  springs  come  up  through 
bitter  brine. 

’Twere  joy,  not  fear,  clasped  hand-in- 
hand  with  thee, 

To  wait  for  death — mute  — careless 
of  all  ills, 


Apart  upon  a mountain,  though  the 
surge 

Of  some  new  deluge  from  a thousand 
hills 

Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into 
the  gorge  « 

Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 

THE  HESPERIEES. 

Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree.  — Comus. 

The  Northwind  fall’n,  in  the  new- 
starred  night 

Zidonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 
The  hoary  promotory  of  Soloe 
Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  bays, 
Between  the  southern  and  the  western 
Horn, 

Heard  neither  warbling  of  the  nightin- 
gale, 

Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  lotus  flute 
Blown  seaward  from  the  shore ; but 
from  a slope 

That  ran  bloombright  into  the  Atlan- 
tic blue, 

Beneath  a highland  leaning  down  a 
weight 

Of  cliffs,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar 
shade, 

Came  voices,  like  the  voices  in  a 
dream, 

Continuous,  till  he  reached  the  outer 
sea. 

SONG. 

1. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple, 
the  hallowed  fruit, 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 
Round  about  all  is  mute, 

As  the  snowfield  on  the  mountain- 
peaks, 

As  the  sandfield  at  the  mountain-foot. 
Crocodiles  in  briny  creeks 
Sleep  and  stir  not : all  is  mute. 

If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  meas- 
ure, 

We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 


820 


THE  HESPERIDES. 


Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 

Laugh  not  loudly  : watch  the  treasure 
Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 

In  a corner  wisdom  whispers.  Five 
and  three 

(Let  it  not  he  preached  abroad)  make 
an  awful  mystery. 

For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music 
bloweth ; 

Evermore  it  is  born  anew ; 

And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  floweth, 
From  the  root 
Drawn  in  the  dark, 

Up  to  the  fruit, 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark, 
Liquid  gold,  honeyswreet,  thro’  and 
thro’. 

Keen-eyed  Sisters,  singing  airily, 
Looking  warily 
Every  way, 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day, 

Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take 
it  away. 

ii. 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch, 
watch,  ever  and  aye, 

Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a 
silver  eye. 

Father,  twinkle  not  thy  steadfast  sight; 
Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change, 
and  races  die ; 

Honor  comes  with  mystery ; 

Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 
Number,  tell  them  over  and  number 
How  many  the  mystic  fruit  tree  holds 
Lest  the  redcombed  dragon  slumber 
Rolled  together  in  purple  folds. 

Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and 
the  golden  apple  be  stol’n  away, 
For  his  ancient  heart  is  drunk  with 
overwatchings  night  and  day, 
Round  about  the  hallowed  fruit  tree 
curled  — 

Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  the 
wind,  without  stop, 

Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop, 

For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 

If  he  waken,  we  waken, 

Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 

If  he  sleep,  we  sleep, 

Dropping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 


If  the  golden  apple  be  taken, 

The  world  will  be  overwise. 

Five  links,  a golden  chain,  are  we, 
Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 
Round  about  the  golden  tree. 

hi. 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch, 
watch,  night  and  day, 

Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be 
healed, 

The  glory  unsealed, 

The  golden  apple  stolen  away, 

And  the  ancient  secret  revealed. 

Look  from  west  to  east  along : 

Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Caucasus 
is  bold  and  strong. 

Wandering  waters  unto  wandering 
waters  call : 

Let  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 
Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles, 

Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 

All  things  are  not  told  to  all. 
Half-round  the  mantling  night  is 
drawn, 

Purple  fringed  with  even  and  dawn. 
Hesper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening 
hateth  morn. 

IV. 

Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  re- 
dolent breath 

Of  this  warm  sea  wind  ripeneth, 
Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep ; 

But  the  land  wind  wandereth, 

Broken  by  the  highland-steep. 

Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep ; 
For  the  western  sun  and  the  western 
star, 

And  the  low  west  wind,  breathing  afar, 
The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night 
Make  the  apple  holy  and  bright ; 
Holy  and  bright,  round  and  full,  bright 
and  blest, 

Mellowed  in  a land  of  rest; 

Watch  it  warily  day  and  night ; 

All  good  things  are  in  the  west. 

Till  mid  noon  the  cool  east  light 
Is  shut  out  by  the  tall  hillbrow ; 

But  when  the  fullfaced  sunset  yellowly 
Stays  on  the  flowering  arch  of  the 
bough, 


KATE. 


821 


The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mel- 
lowly, 

Goldenkernelled,  goldencored. 
Sunset-ripened  above  on  the  tree. 

The  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and 
sword, 

But  the  apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the 
sea. 

Five  links,  a golden  chain  are  we, 
Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 
Daughters  three, 

Bound  about 

The  gnarled  bole  of  the  charmed  tree. 
The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple, 
the  hallowed  fruit, 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Watch  it  warily, 

Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 


NOTE  TO  ROSALIND. 

Perhaps  the  following  lines  may  be  allowed 
to  stand  as  a separate  poem;  originally 
they  made  part  of  the  text,  where  they 
were  manifestly  improper.  See  p.  25. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Bold  subtle,  careless  Rosalind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  know  no  strife 
Of  inward  woe  or  outward  fear ; 

To  whom  the  slope  and  stream  of  Life, 
The  life  before,  the  life  behind, 

In  the  ear,  from  far  and  near, 
Chimeth  musically  clear. 

My  falconhearted  Rosalind, 

Fullsailed  before  a vigorous  wind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  cannot  weep 
For  others’  woes,  but  overleap 
All  the  petty  shocks  and  fears 
That  trouble  life  in  early  years, 

With  a flash  of  frolic  scorn 
And  keen  delight,  that  never  falls 
Away  from  freshness,  selfupborne 
With  such  gladness  as,  whenever 
The  freshflushing  springtime  calls 
To  the  flooding  waters  cool. 

Young  fishes,  on  an  April  morn, 

Up  and  down  a rapid  river, 

Leap  the  little  waterfalls 
That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool. 

My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 


Hath  daring  fancies  of  her  own, 
Fresh  as  the  dawn  before  the  day, 
Fresh  as  the  early  seasmell  blown 
Through  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Because  no  shadow  on  you  falls. 
Think  you  hearts  are  tennisballs, 

To  play  with,  wanton  Rosalind  i 


SONG. 

Who  can  say 
Why  To-day 

To-morrow  will  be  yesterday  7 
Who  can  tell 
Why  to  smell 

The  violet,  recalls  the  dewy  prime 

Of  youth  and  buried  time  'l 

The  cause  is  nowhere  found  in  rhyme. 


KATE. 

I know  her  by  her  angry  air, 

Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright 
black  hair, 

Her  rapid  laughters  wild  and  shrill, 
As  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 
From  the  bosom  of  a hill. 

’Tis  Kate — shesayeth  what  she  will: 
For  Kate  hath  an  unbridled  tongue, 
Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a harp. 

Her  heart  is  like  a throbbing  star. 
Kate  hath  a spirit  ever  strung 

Like  a new  bow,  and  bright  and 
sharp 

As  edges  of  the  scymetar. 
Whence  shall  she  take  a fitting 
mate  ? 

For  Kate  no  common  love  will 
feel ; 

My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 

As  pure  and  true  as  blades  of 
steel. 


Kate  saith  “ the  world  is  void  of 
might.” 

Kate  saith  “ the  men  are  gilded 
flies.” 


822 


O DARLING  ROOM. 


Kate  snaps  her  fingers  at  my 
vows ; 

Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers’  sighs. 
I would  I were  an  armed  knight, 

Far  famed  for  wellwon  enterprise. 

And  wearing  on  my  swarthy 
brows 

The  garland  of  new-wreathed  em- 
prise ; 

For  in  a moment  I would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight, 
And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right, 
In  dreaming  of  my  lady’s  eyes. 

Oh  ! Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and 
fierce ; 

But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 
She  cannot  find  a fitting  mate. 


SONNET. 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OP  THE  OUT- 
BREAK OF  THE  POLISH  INSUR- 
RECTION. 

Blow  ye  the  trumpet,  gather  from 
afar 

The  hosts  to  battle:  be  not  bought 
and  sold. 

Arise,  brave  Poles,  the  boldest  of  the 
bold ; 

Break  through  your  iron  shackles  — 
fling  them  far. 

O for  those  days  of  Piast,  ere  the 
Czar 

Grew  to  his  strength  among  his  deserts 
cold  ; 

When  even  to  Moscow’s  cupolas  were 
rolled 

The  growing  murmurs  of  the  Polish 
war ! 

Now  must  your  noble  anger  blaze  out 
more 

Than  when  from  Sobieski,  clan  by 
clan, 

The  Moslem  myriads  fell,  and  fled 
before  — 

Than  when  Zamoysky  smote  the 
Tartar  Khan  ; 

Than  earlier,  when  on  the  Baltic 
shore 

Boleslas  drove  the  Pomeranian. 


0 DARLING  ROOM. 

i. 

O darling  room,  my  heart’s  delight 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight, 
With  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white. 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite. 

No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright. 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 

ii. 

For  I the  Nonnenwerth  have  seen. 
And  Oberwinter’s  vineyards  green. 
Musical  Lurlei ; and  between 
The  hills  to  Bingen  have  I been, 
Bingen  in  Darmstadt,  where  the 
Rhene 

Curves  toward  Mentz,  a woody  scene, 

m. 

Yet  never  did  there  meet  my  sight. 

In  any  town  to  left  or  right, 

A little  room  so  exquisite, 

With  two  such  couches,  soft  and 
white ; 

Not  any  room  so  warm  and  bright. 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


TO  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 
You  did  late  review  my  lays, 
Crusty  Christopher; 

You  did  mingle  blame  and  praise, 
Rusty  Christopher. 

When  I learnt  from  whom  it  came, 
I forgave  you  all  the  blame, 

Musty  Christopher; 

I could  not  forgive  the  praise, 
Fusty  Christopher. 


NO  MORE. 

Oh  sad  No  More ! Oh  sweet  No 
More  ! 

Oh  strange  No  More  ! 

By  a mossed  brookbank  on  a stone 
I smelt  a wildweed  flower  alone ; 
There  was  a ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  both  my  eyes  gushed  out  with 
tears. 


SONNET. 


823 


Surely  all  pleasant  things  had  gone 
before, 

Lovvburied  fathom  deep  beneath  with 
thee,  No  More  ! 


ANACREONTICS. 

With  roses  muskybreathed, 
And  drooping  daffodilly, 

And  silverleaved  lily, 

And  ivy  darkly-wreathed, 

I wove  a crown  before  her, 
For  her  I love  so  dearly, 

A garland  for  Lenora. 

With  a silken  cord  I bound  it. 
Lenora,  laughing  clearly 
A light  and  thrilling  laughter, 
About  her  forehead  wound  it, 
And  loved  me  ever  after. 


A FRAGMENT. 

Where  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which 
stood 

In  the  midnoon  the  glory  of  old  Rhodes, 

A perfect  Idol  with  profulgent  brows 

Farsheening  down  the  purple  seas  to 
those 

Who  sailed  from  Mizraim  underneath 
the  star 

Named  of  the  Dragon  — and  between 
whose  limbs 

Of  brassy  vastness  broadblown 
Argosies 

Drave  into  haven  1 Yet  endure  un- 
scathed 

Of  changeful  cycles  the  great  Pyra- 
mids 

Broadbased  amid  the  fleeting  sands, 
and  sloped 

Into  the  slumbrous  summer  noon ; but 
where, 

Mysterious  Egypt,  are  thine  obelisks 

Graven  with  gorgeous  emblems  un- 
discerned ? 

Thy  placid  Sphinxes  brooding  o’er  the 
Nile  ? 

Thy  shadowing  Idols  in  the  solitudes, 

Awful  Memnonian  countenances  calm 

Looking  athwart  the  burning  flats,  far 
off 


Seen  by  the  highnecked  camel  on  the 
verge 

Journeying  southward  ? Where  are 
thy  monuments 

Piled  by  the  strong  and  sunborn  Ana- 
kim 

Over  their  crowned  brethren  On  and 
Oph  7 

Thy  Memnon  when  his  peaceful  lips 
are  kist 

With  earliest  rays,  that  from  his 
mother’s  eyes 

Flow  over  the  Arabian  bay,  no  more 

Breathes  low  into  the  charmed  ears  of 
morn 

Clear  melody  flattering  thecrisped  Nile 

By  columned  Thebes.  Old  Memphis 
hath  gone  down: 

The  Pharoahs  are  no  more:  some- 
where in  death 

They  sleep  with  staring  eyes  and 
gilded  lips, 

Wrapped  round  with  spiced  cerements 
in  old  grots 

Rockhewn  and  sealed  for  ever. 


SONNET. 

Me  my  own  fate  to  lasting  sorrow 
doometh, 

Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  transi- 
tory: 

Thy  spirit,  circled  with  a living  glory, 

Insummerstillasummerjoyresumeth. 

Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy  gloom- 
eth, 

Like  a lone  cypress,  through  the 
twilight  hoary, 

From  an  old  garden  where  no  flower 
bloometh, 

One  cypress  on  an  island  promon- 
tory. 

But  yet  my  lonely  spirit  follows  thine, 

As  round  the  rolling  earth  night 
follows  day : 

But  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 

Into  my  night,  when  thou  art  far 
away 

I am  so  dark,  alas  ! and  thou  so  bright, 

When  we  two  meet  there’s  never  per- 
fect light. 


824 


THE  NEW  TIM  ON  AND  THE  POETS. 


SONNET. 

Check  every  outflash,  every  ruder 
sally 

Of  thought  and  speech  ; speak  low 
and  give  up  wholly 

Thy  spirit  to  mild-minded  melancholy ; 

This  is  the  place.  Through  yonder 
poplar  valley 

Below  the  blue-green  river  windeth 
slowly ; 

But  in  the  middle  of  the  sombre  valley 

The  crisped  waters  whisper  musically, 

And  all  the  haunted  place  is  dark 
and  holy. 

The  nightingale,  with  long  and  low 
preamble, 

Warbled  from  yonder  knoll  of 
solemn  larches, 

And  in  and  out  the  woodbine’s 
flowery  arches 

The  summer  midges  wove  their  wanton 
gambol 

And  all  the  white-stemmed  pine- 
wood  slept  above  — 

When  in  this  valley  first  I told  my 
love. 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPE. 

Sure  never  yet  was  Antelope 
Could  skip  so  lightly  by. 

Stand  off,  or  else  my  skipping-rope 
Will  hit  you  in  the  eye. 

How  lightly  whirls  the  skipping-rope ! 

How  fairy-like  you  fly  ! 

Go,  get  you  gone,youmuse  and  mope — 
I hate  that  silly  sigh. 

Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope, 
Or  tell  me  how  to  die. 

There,  take  it,  take  my  skipping-rope, 
And  hang  yourself  thereby. 


THE  NEW  TIMON  AND  THE 
POETS. 

We  know  him,  out  of  Shakespeare’s 
art, 

And  those  fine  curses  which  he 
spoke ; 


The  old  Timon,  with  his  noble  heart; 
That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly 
broke. 

So  died  the  Old : here  comes  the  New. 

Regard  him  : a familiar  face  : 

I thought  we  knew  him : What,  it’s  you, 
The  padded  man  — that  wears  the 
stays  — 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the 
boys 

With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote  ! 
A Lion,  you,  that  made  a noise, 

And  shook  a mane  en  papillotes. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too  ; 
You  failed,  Sir  : therefore  now  you 
turn, 

To  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 
As  Captain  is  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes, 

And  careless  what  this  hour  may 
bring, 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes 
And  Brummels,  when  they  try  to 
sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 
And  waive  a little  of  his  claim ; 

To  have  the  deep  poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

But  you,  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please  ; 

You  never  look  but  half  content: 
Nor  like  a gentleman  at  ease, 

With  moral  breadth  of  tempera- 
ment. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  with 
fears, 

You  cannot  let  a body  be  : 

It’s  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 

“ They  call  this  man  as  good  as  me.” 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a spotless  shirt  — 

A dapper  boot  — a little  hand  — 

If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt  * 


BRITONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN. 


825 


You  talk  of  tinsel ! why,  we  see 
The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your 
cheeks. 

You  prate  of  Nature  ! you  are  he 
That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A Timon  yon  ! Nay,  nay,  for  shame  : 
It  looks  too  arrogant  a jest  — 

The  fierce  old  man  — to  take  his  name, 
You  bandbox.  Off,  and  let  him  rest. 


STANZAS. 

What  time  I wasted  youthful  hours, 
One  of  the  shining  winged  powers, 
Show’d  me  vast  cliffs  with  crown  of 
towers 

As  towards  the  gracious  light  I bow’d, 
They  seem’d  high  palaces  and  proud, 
Hid  now  and  then  with  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  “ The  labor  is  not  small ; 

Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all:  — 
Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall ! ” 


SONNET. 

TO  WILLIAM  CHARLES  MACREADY. 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night 
we  part. 

Full-handed  thunders  often  have 
confest 

Thy  power,  well-used  to  move  the 
public  breast. 

We  thank  thee  with  one  voice,  and 
from  the  heart 

Farewell,  Macready  ; since  this  night 
we  part. 

Go,  take  thine  honors  home  : rank 
with  the  best, 

Garrick,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and 
the  rest 

Who  made  a nation  purer  thro’  their 
art. 

Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not  die, 

Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  panto- 
mime, 


And  those  gilt  gauds  men-children 
swarm  to  see. 

Farewell,  Macready ; moral,  grave, 
sublime. 

Our  Shakespeare’s  blandand universal 
eye 

Dwells  pleased,  thro’  twice  a hun- 
dred years,  on  thee. 


BRITONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN. 

Rise,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not 
dead, 

The  world’s  last  tempest  darkens  over- 
head; 

The  Pope  has  bless’d  him  ; 

The  Church  caress’d  him  ; 

He  triumphs ; may  be  we  shall  stand 
alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

His  ruthless  host  is  bought  with  plun- 
der’d gold, 

By  lying  priests  the  peasant’s  votes 
controll’d. 

All  freedom  vanish’d, 

The  true  men  banish’d, 

He  triumphs  ; may  be  we  shall  stand 
alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Peace-lovers  we  — sweet  Peace  we  all 
desire  — 

Peace-lovers  we  — but  who  can  trust 
a liar — 

Peace-lovers,  haters 

Of  shameless  traitors, 

We  hate  not  France,  but  this  man’s 
heart  of  stone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

We  hate  not  France,  but  France  has 
lost  her  voice. 

This  man  is  France,  the  man  they  call 
her  choice. 

By  tricks  and  spying, 

By  craft  and  lying, 

And  murder  was  her  freedom  over- 
thrown. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 


826 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 


“ Vive  l’Empereur  ” may  follow  bye 
and  bye ; 

“ God  save  the  Queen  ” is  here  a truer 
cry. 

God  save  the  Nation, 

The  toleration, 

And  the  free  speech  that  makes  a 
Briton  known. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Rome’s  dearest  daughter  now  is  cap- 
tive France, 

The  Jesuit  laughs,  and  reckoning  on 
his  chance, 

Would  unrelenting, 

Kill  all  dissenting, 

Till  we  were  left  to  fight  for  truth 
alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Call  home  your  ships  across  Biscayan 
tides, 

To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oaken 
sides. 

Why  waste  they  yonder 
Their  idle  thunder '( 

Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a 
foreign  throne  ? 

Seamen,  guard  your  own. 


We  were  the  best  of  marksmen  long 
ago, 

We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength, 
the  bow. 

Now  practise,  yoemen, 

Like  those  bowmen, 

Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have 
flown. 

Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 


His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  in- 
cline 

To  take  Sardinia,  Belgium,  or  the 
Rhine : 

Shall  we  stand  idle, 

Nor  seek  to  bridle 

His  rude  aggressions,  till  we  stand 
alone  1 

Make  their  cause  your  own. 


Should  he  land  here,  and  for  one  hour 
prevail, 

There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear 
the  tale : 

No  m£tn  to  bear  it  — 

Swear  it ! we  swear  it ! 

Although  we  fight  the  banded  world 
alone, 

We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 

First  drink  a health,  this  solemn 
night, 

A health  to  England,  every  guest ; 

That  man’s  the  best  cosmopolite 
Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 

May  Freedom’s  oak  for  ever  live 
With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day ; 

That  man’s  the  best  Conservative 
Who  lops  the  mouldered  branch 
away. 

Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  hope  confound  ! 

To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 


A health  to  Europe’s  honest  men ! 

Heaven  guard  them  from  her 
tyrants’  jails ! 

From  wronged  Poerio’s  noisome  den, 

From  ironed  limbs  and  tortured 
nails ! 

We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern 
kings, 

The  Russian  whips  and  Austrian 
rods  — 

We  likewise  have  our  evil  things ; 

Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers, 
Gods. 

Yet  hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound ! 

To  Europe’s  better  health  we  drink, 
my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round  ! 


THE  WAR. 


827 


What  health  to  France,  if  France  be 
she, 

Whom  martial  progress  only 
charms  ? 

Yet  tell  her — better  to  be  free 

Than  vanquish  all  the  world  in  arms. 

Her  frantic  city’s  flashing  heats 
But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men. 

Why  change  the  titles  of  your  streets  ? 
You  fools,  you’ll  want  them  all 
again. 

Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound  ! 

To  France,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink, 
my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 

Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood, 

We  know  thee  and  we  love  thee  best, 
For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood  7 

Should  war’s  mad  blast  again  be 
blown, 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powers 

To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone, 

But  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with 
ours. 

Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrants  cause  confound ! 

To  our  dear  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my 
friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England, 
round  and  round. 

O rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons, 
When  war  against  our  freedom 
springs ! 

O speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns ! 
They  can  be  understood  by  kings. 

You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with 
those 

That  wish  to  keep  their  people 
fools ; 

Our  freedom’s  foemen  are  her  foes, 
She  comprehends  the  race  she  rules. 

Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound ! 

To  our  dear  kinsmen  in  the  West,  my 
friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England 
round  and  round. 


THE  WAR. 

There  is  a sound  of  thunder  afar, 
Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the 
day, 

Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war, 
Well,  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 

Form  ! form  ! Riflemen,  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the 
storm ! 

Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen, 

form ! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns ! 
Be  not  gull’d  by  a despot’s  plea ! 

Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of 
thorns  1 

How  should  a despot  set  men  free  ? 

Form  ! form  ! Riflemen,  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the 
storm  ! 

Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen, 

form  ! 

Let  your  Reforms  for  a moment  go, 
Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good 
aims. 

Better  a rotten  borough  or  so, 

Than  a rotten  fleet  or  a city  in 
flames  ! 

Form  ! form  ! Riflemen,  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the 
storm  ! 

Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen, 
form ! 

Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die ! 

Form  in  Freedom’s  name  and  the 
Queen’s  ! 

True,  that  we  have  a faithful  ally, 
But  only  the  Devil  knows  what  he 
means. 

Form  ! form  ! Riflemen,  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the 
storm  ! 

Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen, 
form ! 


1865-1866. 

I stood  on  a tower  in  the  wet, 
And  New  Year  and  Old  Year  met, 


828 


ADDITIONAL  VERSES. 


And  winds  were  roaring  and  blowing; 
And  I said,  “0  years  that  meet  in 
tears, 

Have  ye  aught  that  is  worth  the  know- 
ing ? 

Science  enough  and  exploring, 
Wanderers  coming  and  going, 

Matter  enough  for  deploring, 

But  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing  ? ” 
Seas  at  my  feet  were  flowing, 

Waves  on  the  shingle  pouring, 

Old  Year  roaring  and  blowing, 

And  New  Year  blowing  and  roaring. 

SONNET. 

There  are  three  things  which  fill  my 
heart  with  sighs, 

And  steep  my  soul  in  iaughter  (when 
I view 

Fair  maiden-forms  moving  like  melo- 
dies) — 

Dimples,  roselips,  and  eyes  of  any 
hue. 

There  are  three  things  beneath  the 
blessed  skies 

For  which  I live  — black  eyes  and 
brown  and  blue : 

I hold  them  all  most  dear ; but  oh ! 
black  eyes, 

I live  and  die,  and  only  die  in  you. 

Of  late  such  eyes  looked  at  me  — 
while  I mused, 

At  sunset,  underneath  a shadowy 
plane. 

In  old  Bayona  nigh  the  southern 
sea  — 

From  an  half-open  lattice  looked  at 
me. 

I saw  no  more  — only  those  eyes  — 
confused 

And  dazzled  to  the  heart  with  glorious 
pain. 


ADDITIONAL  VERSES. 

To  “ God  Save  the  Queen!  ” written  for  the 
marriage  of  the  Princess  Royal  of  England 
with  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia,  Jan.  25, 
1858. 

God  bless  our  Prince  and  Bride ! 
God  keep  their- lands  allied, 


God  save  the  Queen  ! 

Clothe  them  with  righteousness, 
Crown  them  with  happiness, 
Them  with  all  blessings  bless, 
God  save  the  Queen  ! 

Fair  fall  this  hallow’d  hour, 
Farewell,  our  England’s  flower, 
God  save  the  Queen  ! 

Farewell,  first  rose  of  May  ! 

Let  both  the  peoples  say, 

God  bless  thy  marriage-day, 

God  bless  the  Queen  ! 

SONNET  ON  CAMBRIDGE 
UNIVERSITY. 

Therefore  your  Halls,  your  ancient 
Colleges, 

Your  portals  statued  with  old  kings 
and  queens, 

Your  gardens,  myriad-volumed  libra- 
ries, 

Wax-lighted  chapels,  and  rich  carven 
screens, 

Your  doctors,  and  your  proctors,  and 
your  deans 

Shall  not  avail  you,  when  the  Day- 
beam  sports 

New-risen  o’er  awaken’d  Albion  — 
No! 

Nor  yet  your  solemn  organ-pipes  that 
blow 

Melodious  thunders  thro’  your  vacant 
courts 

At  morn  and  eve  — because  your 
manner  sorts 

Not  with  this  age  wherefrom  ye  stand 
apart  — 

Because  the  lips  of  little  children 
preach 

Against  you,  you  that  do  profess  to 
teach 

And  teach  us  nothing,  feeding  not  the 
heart. 


LINES. 

Here  often,  when  a child,  I lay  re- 
clined, 

I took  delight  in  this  locality. 


THE  CHARGE  OE  THE  HEAVY  BRIGADE. 


S29 


Here  stood  the  infant  Ilion  of  the 
mind, 

And  here  the  Grecian  ships  did 
seem  to  be. 

And  here  again  I come,  and  only  find 

The  drain-cut  levels  of  the  marshy 
lea,  — 

Gray  sandbanks,  and  pale  sunsets,  — 
dreary  wind, 

Dim  shores,  dense  rains,  and  heavy- 
clouded  sea ! 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  HEAVY 
BRIGADE  AT  BALACLAVA.1 

October  25,  1854. 


The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hun- 
dred, the  Heavy  Brigade  ! — 
Down  the  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousands 
of  Russians, 

Thousands  of  horsemen,  drew  to  the 
valley  — and  stay’d  ; 

For  Scarlett  and  Scarlett’s  three  hun- 
dred were  riding  by 
When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances 
broke  in  on  the  sky ; 

And  he  call’d  “Left  wheel  into  line  ! ” 
and  they  wheel’d  and  obey’d. 
Then  he  look’d  at  the  host  that  had 
halted  he  knew  not  why, 

And  he  turn’d  half  round,  and  he  bade 
his  trumpeter  sound 
To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead, 
as  he  waved  his  blade 
To  the  gallant  three  hundred  whose 
glory  will  never  die  — 

“ Follow,”  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
up  the  hill, 

Follow’d  the  Heavy  Brigade. 

1 The  “ three  hundred  ” of  the  “ Heavy 
Brigade”  who  made  this  famous  charge  were 
the  Scots  Greys  and  the  second  squadron  of 
Inniskillens;  the  remainder  of  the  “ Heavy 
Brigade”  subsequently  dashing  up  to  their 
support. 

The  “three”  were  Elliot,  Scarlett’s  aide- 
de-camp,  who  had  been  riding  by  his  side, 
and  the  trumpeter,  and  Shegog  the  orderly, 
who  had  been  close  behind  him. 


II. 

The  trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge, 
and  the  might  of  the  fight ! — 
Down  the  hill,  slowly,  thousands  of 
Russians 

Drew  to  the  valley,  and  halted  at  last 
on  the  height, 

With  a wing  push’d  out  to  the  left, 
and  a wing  to  the  right  — 

But  Scarlett  was  far  on  ahead,  and  he 
dash’d  up  alone 

Thro’  the  great  gray  slope  of  men, 
And  he  wheel’d  his  sabre,  he  held  his 
own 

Like  an  Englishman  there  and  then ; 
And  the  three  that  were  nearest  him 
follow’d  with  force, 

Wedged  themselves  in  between  horse 
and  horse, 

Fought  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow 
gap  they  had  made, 

Four  amid  thousands  ; and  up  the  hill, 
up  the  hill, 

Gallopt  the  gallant  three  hundred, 
the  Heavy  Brigade. 

hi. 

Fell  like  a cannon-shot, 

Burst  like  a thunder-bolt, 

Crash’d  like  a hurricane, 

Broke  thro’  the  mass  from  below, 
Drove  thro’  the  midst  of  the  foe, 
Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 
Rode  flashing  blow  upon  blow, 

Brave  Inniskillens  and  Greys 
Whirling  their  sabres  in  circles  of 
light ! 

And  some  of  us,  all  in  amaze, 

Who  were  held  for  a while  from  the 
fight, 

And  were  only  standing  at  gaze, 
When  the  dark-muffled  Russian  crowd 
Folded  its  wings  from  the  left  and  the 
right, 

And  roll’d  them  around  like  a cloud  — 
O mad  for  the  charge  and  the  battle 
were  we, 

When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank 
from  sight, 

Like  drops  of  blood  in  a dark-gray 
sea, 


830 


TO  VIRGIL. 


And  we  turn’d  to  each  other,  mutter- 
ing, all  dismay’d, 

Lost  are  the  gallant  three  hundred,  the 
Heavy  Brigade ! 

IV. 

But  they  rode  like  Victors  and  Lords 
Thro’  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes ; 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay  — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 
The  foe  from  the  saddle  and  threw 
Underfoot  there  in  the  fray  — 

Ranged  like  a storm  or  stood  like  a 
rock 

In  the  wave  of  a stormy  day  ; 

Till  suddenly  shock  upon  shock 
Stagger’d  the  mass  from  without, 

For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a cheer 
and  a shout, 

And  the  Russian  surged,  and  waver’d, 
and  reel’d 

Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  out 
of  the  field, 

Over  the  brow  and  away. 

v. 

Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the 
charge  that  they  made ! 

Glory  to  all  the  three  hundred,  the 
Heavy  Brigade ! 


TO  VIRGIL. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OP  THE 
MANTUANS  FOR  THE  NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY  OF  VIRGIL’S  DEATH. 


Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  singest 

Ilion’s  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 
Ilion  falling,  Rome  arising, 

wars,  and  filial  faith  and  Dido’s 
pyre  ; 

ii. 

Landscape-lover,  lord  of  language 
more  than  he  that  sang  the  Works 
and  Days, 


All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing  out  from  many  a golden 
phrase ; 

hi. 

Thouthat  singest  wheat  and  woodland, 
tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse 
and  herd ; 

All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a lonely  word ; 

IV. 

Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus 

piping  underneath  his  beecheh 
bowers ; 

Poet  of  the  poet-satyr 

whom  the  laughing  shepherd 
bound  with  flowers ; 

v. 

Chanter  of  the  Pollio,  glorying 

in  the  blissful  years  again  to  be, 

Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 
unlaborious  earth  and  oarless 
sea; 

VI. 

Thou  that  seest  Universal 

Nature  moved  by  Universal 
Mind ; 

Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 

at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human 
kind ; 

VII. 

Light  among  the  vanish’d  ages; 

star  that  gildest  yet  this  phantom 
shore ; 

Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 
kings  and  realms  that  pass  to  rise 
no  more ; 

VIII. 

Now  thy  Forum  roars  no  longer, 

fallen  every  purple  Caesar’s 
dome  — 

Tho’  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 

sound  for  ever  of  Imperial 
Rome  — 


DESPAIR:  A DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 


831 


IX. 


X. 


Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish’d, 


I salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I that  loved  thee  since  my  day 


and  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds 
her  place, 


began, 


I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island 


Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 
ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man. 


sunder’d  once  from  all  the  human 
race, 


DESPAIR  : A DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 


[A  man  and  his  wife  having  lost  faith  in  a God,  and  hope  of  a life  to  come,  and  being 
uttterly  miserable  in  this,  resolve  to  end  themselves  by  drowning.  The  woman  is  drowned, 
but  the  man  is  rescued  by  a minister  of  the  sect  he  had  abandoned.] 

Is  it  you,  that  preach’d  in  the  chapel  there  looking  over  the  sand  ? 

Follow’d  us  too  that  night,  and  dogg’d  us,  and  drew  me  to  land  ? 

What  did  I feel  that  night  ? You  are  curious.  How  should  I tell  ? 

Does  it  matter  so  much  what  I felt  ? You  rescued  me — yet  — was  it  well 

That  you  came  unwish’d  for,  uncall’d,  between  me  and  the  deep  and  my  doom 

Three  days  since,  three  more  dark  days  of  the  Godless  gloom 

Of  a life  without  sun,  without  health,  without  hope,  without  any  delight 

In  anything  here  upon  earth?  but  ah  God,  that  night,  that  night 

When  the  rolling  eyes  of  the  light-house  there  on  the  fatal  neck 

Of  land  running  out  into  rock  — they  had  saved  many  hundreds  from  wreck — 

Glared  on  our  way  toward  death,  I remember  I thought  as  we  past 

Does  it  matter  how  many  they  saved  ? we  are  all  of  us  wreck’d  at  last  — 

“ Do  you  fear,”  and  there  came  thro’  the  roar  of  the  breaker  a whisper,  a breath 
“ Fear  ? am  I not  with  you  ? I am  frighted  at  life  not  death.” 

And  the  suns  of  the  limitless  Universe  sparkled  and  shone  in  the  sky, 
Flashing  with  fires  as  of  God,  but  we  knew  that  their  light  was  a lie  — 

Bright  as  with  deathless  hope  — but,  however  they  sparkled  and  shone, 

The  dark  little  worlds  running  round  them  were  worlds  of  woe  like  our  own  — 
No  soul  in  the  heaven  above,  no  soul  on  the  earth  below, 

A fiery  scroll  written  over  with  lamentation  and  woe. 

See,  we  were  nursed  in  the  dark  night-fold  of  your  fatalist  creed, 

And  we  turn’d  to  the  growing  dawn,  we  had  hoped  for  a dawn  indeed, 

When  the  light  of  a Sun  that  was  coming  would  scatter  the  ghosts  of  the  Past, 
And  the  cramping  creeds  that  had  madden’d  the  peoples  would  vanish  at  last, 
And  we  broke  away  from  the  Christ,  our  human  brother  and  friend, 

For  He  spoke,  or  it  seem’d  that  He  spoke,  of  a Hell  without  help,  without  end. 

Hoped  for  a dawn  and  it  came,  but  the  promise  had  faded  away; 

We  had  past  from  a cheerless  night  to  the  glare  of  a drearier  day; 

He  is  only  a cloud  and  a smoke  who  was  once  a pillar  of  fire, 

The  guess  of  a worm  in  the  dust  and  the  shadow  of  its  desire  — 

Of  a worm  as  it  writhes  in  a world  of  the  weak  trodden  down  by  the  strong, 
Of  a dying  worm  in  a world,  all  massacre,  murder,  and  wrong. 


832 


DESPAIR : A DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 


0 we  poor  orphans  of  nothing  — alone  on  that  lonely  shore  — 

Born  of  the  brainless  Nature  who  knew  not  that  which  she  bore ! 

Trusting  no  longer  that  earthly  flower  would  be  heavenly  fruit  — 

Come  from  the  brute,  poor  souls  — no  souls  — and  to  die  with  the  brute  — 

Nay,  but  I am  not  claiming  your  pity  : I know  you  of  old  — 

Small  pity  for  those  that  have  ranged  from  the  narrow  warmth  of  your  fold, 
Where  you  bawl’d  the  dark  side  of  your  faith  and  a God  of  eternal  rage, 

Till  you  flung  us  back  on  ourselves,  and  the  human  heart,  and  the  Age. 

But  pity  — the  Pagan  held  it  a vice  — was  in  her  and  in  me, 

Helpless,  taking  the  place  of  the  pitying  God  that  should  be  ! 

Pity  for  all  that  aches  in  the  grasp  of  an  idiot  power, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  on  an  earth  that  bore  not  a flower ; 

Pity  for  all  that  suffers  on  land  or  in  air  or  the  deep, 

And  pity  for  our  own  selves  till  we  long’d  for  eternal  sleep. 

“ Lightly  step  over  the  sands  ! the  waters  — you  hear  them  call! 

Life  with  its  anguish,  and  horrors,  and  errors  — away  with  it  all ! ” 

And  she  laid  her  hand  in  my  own  — she  was  always  loyal  and  sweet  — 

Till  the  points  of  the  foam  in  the  dusk  came  playing  about  our  feet. 

There  was  a strong  sea-current  would  sweep  us  out  to  the  main. 

“ Ah  God  ” tho’  1 felt  as  I spoke  I was  taking  the  name  in  vain  — 

“ Ah  God  ” and  we  turn’d  to  each  other,  we  kiss’d,  we  embraced,  she  and  I, 
Knowing  the  Love  we  were  used  to  believe  everlasting  would  die : 

We  had  read  their  know-nothing  books  and  we  lean’d  to  the  darker  side  — 

Ah  God,  should  we  find  Him,  perhaps,  perhaps,  if  we  died,  if  we  died  1 
We  never  had  found  Him  on  earth  — this  earth  is  a fatherless  Hell  — 

“ Dear  Love,  for  ever  and  ever,  for  ever  and  ever  farewell ! ” 

Never  a cry  so  desolate,  not  since  the  world  began ; 

Never  a kiss  so  sad,  no,  not  since  the  coming  of  man. 

But  the  blind  wave  cast  me  ashore,  and  you  saved  me,  a valueless  life. 

Not  a grain  of  gratitude  mine  ! You  have  parted  the  man  from  the  wife. 

1 am  left  alone  on  the  land,  she  is  all  alone  in  the  sea, 

If  a curse  meant  ought,  I would  curse  you  for  not  having  let  me  be. 

Visions  of  youth  — for  my  brain  was  drunk  with  the  water,  it  seems ; 

I had  past  into  perfect  quiet  at  length  out  of  pleasant  dreams, 

And  the  transient  trouble  of  drowning — what  was  it  when  match’d  with  the 
pains 

Of  the  hellish  heat  of  a wretched  life  rushing  back  thro’  the  veins  ? 

Why  should  I live  ? one  son  had  forged  on  his  father  and  fled, 

And  if  I believed  in  a God,  1 would  thank  him,  the  other  is  dead, 

And  there  was  a baby-girl,  that  had  never  look’d  on  the  light : 

Happiest  she  of  us  all,  for  she  past  from  the  night  to  the  night. 

But  the  crime,  if  a crime,  of  her  eldest-born,  her  glory,  her  boast, 

Struck  hard  at  the  tender  heart  of  the  mother,  and  broke  it  almost ; 

Tho’,  name  and  fame  dying  out  for  ever  in  endless  time, 

Does  it  matter  so  much  whether  crown’d  for  a virtue,  or  hang’d  for  a crime  ? 


DESPAIR:  A DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 


833 


And  ruin’d  by  him,  by  him,  I stood  there,  naked,  amazed 

In  a world  of  arrogant  opulence,  fear’d  myself  turning  crazed, 

And  I would  not  be  mock’d  in  a madhouse  ! and  she,  the  delicate  wife, 

With  a grief  that  could  only  be  cured,  if  cured,  by  the  surgeon’s  knife,  — 

Why  should  we  bear  with  an  hour  of  torture,  a moment  of  pain, 

If  every  man  die  for  ever,  if  all  his  griefs  are  in  vain, 

And  the  homeless  planet  at  length  will  be  wheel’d  thro’  the  silence  of  space, 
Motherless  evermore  of  an  ever- vanishing  race, 

WThen  the  worm  shall  have  writhed  its  last,  and  its  last  brother-worm  will  have 
fled 

From  the  dead  fossil  skull  that  is  left  in  the  rocks  of  an  earth  is  dead  1 

Have  I crazed  myself  over  their  horrible  infidel  writings  ? 0 yes, 

For  these  are  the  new  dark  ages,  you  see,  of  the  popular  press, 

When  the  bat  comes  out  of  his  cave,  and  the  owls  are  whooping  at  noon, 

And  Doubt  is  the  lord  of  this  dunghill  and  crows  to  the  sun  and  the  moon, 
Till  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  of  our  science  are  both  of  them  turn’d  into  blood, 
And  Hope  will  have  broken  her  heart,  running  after  a shadow  of  good ; 

For  their  knowing  and  know-nothing  books  are  scattered  from  hand  to  hand  — 
We  have  knelt  in  your  know-all  chapel  too  looking  over  the  sand. 

What ! I should  call  on  that  Infinite  Love  that  has  served  us  so  well  % 

Infinite  wickedness  rather  that  made  everlasting  Hell, 

Made  us,  foreknew  us,  foredoom’d  us,  and  does  what  he  will  with  his  own ; 
Better  our  dead  brute  mother  who  never  has  heard  us  groan ! 

Hell  ? if  the  souls  of  men  were  immortal,  as  men  have  been  told, 

The  lecher  would  cleave  to  his  lusts,  and  the  miser  would  yearn  for  his  gold, 
And  so  there  were  Hell  for  ever ! but  were  there  a God  as  you  say, 

His  Love  would  have  power  over  Hell  till  it  utterly  vanish’d  away. 

Ah  yet  — I have  had  some  glimmer,  at  times,  in  my  gloomiest  woe, 

Of  a God  behind  all  — after  all  — the  great  God  for  aught  that  I know ; 

But  the  God  of  Love  and  of  Hell  together  — they  cannot  be  thought ; 

If  there  be  such  a God,  may  the  Great  God  curse  him  and  bring  him  to  nought ! 

Blasphemy  ! whose  is  the  fault  ? is  it  mine  ? for  why  would  you  save 
A madman  to  vex  you  with  wretched  words,  who  is  best  in  his  grave  ? 
Blasphemy ! ay,  why  not,  being  damn’d  beyond  hope  of  grace  ? 

O would  I were  yonder  with  her,  and  away  from  your  faith  and  your  face  ! 
Blasphemy ! true ! I have  scared  you  pale  with  my  scandalous  talk, 

But  the  blasphemy  to  my  mind  lies  all  in  the  way  that  you  walk. 

Hence  ! she  is  gone  ! can  I stay  ? can  I breathe  divorced  from  the  Past  ? 

You  needs  must  have  good  lynx-eyes  if  I do  not  escape  you  at  last. 

Our  orthodox  coroner  doubtless  will  find  it  a felo-de-se, 

And  the  stake  and  the  cross-road,  fool,  if  you  will,  does  it  matter  to  me  ? 


834 


EARLY  SPRING. 


MIDNIGHT,  JUNE  30,  1879. 

i. 

Midnight  — in  no  midsummer  tune 
The  breakers  lash  the  shores : 

The  cuckoo  of  a joyless  June 
Is  calling  out-of-doors  : 

And  thou  hast  vanish’d  from  thine 
own 

To  that  which  looks  like  rest, 

True  brother,  only  to  be  known 
By  those  who  love  thee  best. 

ii. 

Midnight  — and  joyless  June  gone  by, 
And  from  the  deluged  park 
The  cuckoo  of  a worse  July 
Is  calling  thro’  the  dark  : 

But  thou  art  silent  under-ground, 

And  o’er  thee  streams  the  rain, 
True  poet,  surely  to  be  found 
When  Truth  is  found  again. 

hi. 

And,  now  to  these  unsummer’d  skies 
The  summer  bird  is  still, 

Far  off  a phantom  cuckoo  cries 
From  out  a phantom  hill ; 

And  thro’  this  midnight  breaks  the 
sun 

Of  sixty  years  away, 

The  light  of  days  when  life  begun, 
The  days  that  seem  to-day, 

When  all  my  griefs  were  shared  with 
thee, 

And  all  my  hopes  were  thine  — 

As  all  thou  wert  was  one  with  me, 
May  all  thou  art  be  mine ! 


EARLY  SPRING. 

Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  domes  the  red-pjough’d  hills 
With  loving  blue ; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  throstles  too. 


Opens  a door  in  Heaven  ; 

From  skies  of  glass 
A Jacob’s-ladder  falls 
On  greening  grass, 

And  o’er  the  mountain-walls 
Young  angels  pass. 

Before  them  fleets  the  shower, 
And  burst  the  buds, 

And  shine  the  level  lands, 

And  flash  the  floods ; 

The  stars  are  from  their  hands 
Flung  thro’  the  woods ; 

The  woods  by  living  airs 
How  freshly  fann’d, 

Light  airs  from  where  the  deep, 
All  down  the  sand, 

Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 

Heard  by  the  land  ! 

O follow,  leaping  blood, 

The  season’s  lure ! 

O heart,  look  down  and  up, 
Serene,  secure, 

Warm  as  the  crocus-cup, 

Like  snowdrops,  pure ! 

Past,  future,  glimpse  and  fade 
Thro’  some  slight  spell, 

Some  gleam  from  yonder  vale, 
Some  far  blue  fell, 

And  sympathies,  how  frail, 

In  sound  and  smell. 


Till,  at  thy  chuckled  note, 
Thou  twinkling  bird, 
The  fairy  fancies  range, 
And,  lightly  stirr’d, 
Ring  little  bells  of  change 
From  word  to  word. 


For  now  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  thaws  the  cold,  and  fills 
The  flower  with  dew  ; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  poets  too. 


FREEDOM. 


835 


“ FRATER  AYE  ATQUE  YALE.” 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your 
Sirmione  row  ! 

So  they  row’d,  and  there  we  landed  — 
“ O venusta  Sirmio ! ” 

There  to  me  thro’  all  the  groves  of 
olive  in  the  summer  glow, 
There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  where 
the  purple  flowers  grow, 

Came  that  “ Ave  atque  Vale”  of  the 
Poet’s  hopeless  woe, 

Tenderest  of  Roman  poets  nineteen- 
hundred  years  ago, 

“Frater  Ave  atque  Vale”  — as  we 
wander’d  to  and  fro 
Gazing  at  the  Lydian  laughter  of  the 
Garda-lake  below 

Sweet  Catullus’s  all-but-island,  olive- 
silvery  Sirmio ! 


FREEDOM. 

O Thou  so  fair  in  Summers  gone, 
While  yet  thy  fresh  and  virgin  soul 
Inform’d  the  column’d  Parthenon, 
The  glittering  Capitol ; 

So  fair  in  southern  sunshine  bathed, 
But  scarce  of  such  majestic  mien 
As  here  with  forehead  vapor-swathed 
In  meadows  ever  green ; 

For  thou  — when  Athens  reign’d  and 
Rome, 

Thy  glorious  eyes  were  dimm’d  with 
pain 


To  mark  in  many  a freeman’s  home 
The  slave,  the  scourge,  the  chain  ; 

O follower  of  the  Vision,  still 
In  motion  to  the  distant  gleam, 
Howe’er  blind  force  and  brainless  will 
May  jar  thy  golden  dream, 

Who,  like  great  Nature,  wouldst  not 
mar 

By  changes  all  too  fierce  and  fast 
This  order  of  our  Human  Star, 

This  heritage  of  the  past ; 

O scorner  of  the  party  cry 

That  wanders  from  the  public  good, 
Thou  — when  the  nations  rear  on  high 
Their  idol  smear’d  with  blood, 

And  when  they  roll  their  idol  down  — 
Of  saner  W orship  sanely  proud  ; 
Thou  loather  of  the  lawless  crown 
As  of  the  lawless  crowd ; 

How  long  thine  ever-growing  mind 
Hath  still’d  the  blast  and  strewn  the 
wave, 

Though  some  of  late  would  raise  a 
wind 

To  sing  thee  to  thy  grave, 

Men  loud  against  all  forms  of 
power  — 

Unfurnish’d  brows,  tempestuous 
tongues, 

Expecting  all  things  in  an  hour  — 
Brass  mouths  and  iron  lungs ! 


POEMS,  BY  TWO  BROTHERS.1 

[ALFRED  and  CHARLES  TENNYSON.] 

“Haec  nos  novimus  esse  nihil.”  — Martial. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  Poems  were  written  from  the  ages  of  fifteen  to  eighteen,  not  conjointly, 
but  individually ; which  may  account  for  their  difference  of  style  and  matter.  To  light  upon 
any  novel  combination  of  images,  or  to  open  any  vein  of  sparkling  thought  untouched  before, 
were  no  easy  task;  indeed,  the  remark  itself  is  as  old  as  the  truth  is  clear;  and,  no  doubt,  if 
submitted  to  the  microscopic  eye  of  periodical  criticism,  a long  list  of  inaccuracies  and  imita- 
tions would  result  from  the  investigation.  But  so  it  is:  we  have  passed  the  Rubicon,  and 
we  leave  the  rest  to  fate ; though  its  edict  may  create  a fruitless  regret  that  we  ever  emerged 
from  “ the  shade,”  and  courted  notoriety. 

March,  1827. 


’Tis  sweet  to  lead  from  stage  to  stage, 

Like  infancy  to  a maturer  age, 

The  fleeting  thoughts  that  crowd 
quick  Fancy’s  view, 

And  the  coy  image  into  form  to  woo ; 

Till  all  its  charms  to  life  and  shape 
awake, 

Wrought  to  the  finest  polish  they  can 
take  : 

Now  out  of  sight  the  crafty  Proteus 
steals, 

The  mind’s  quick  emissaries  at  his 
heels, 

Its  nature  now  a partial  light  reveals. 

Each  moment’s  labor,  easier  than 
before, 

Embodies  the  illusive  image  more  ; 

Brings  it  more  closely  underneath  the 
eye, 

And  lends  it  form  and  palpability. 

What  late  in  shadowy  vision  fleeted 

by, 


Receives  at  each  essay  a deepening 
dye ; 

Till  diction  gives  us,  modelled  into 
song, 

The  fairy  phantoms  of  the  motley 
throng; 

Detaining  and  elucidating  well 

Her  airy  embryos  with  binding  spell ; 

For  when  the  mind  reflects  its  image 
true  — 

Sees  its  own  aim — expression  must 
ensue ; 

If  all  but  language  is  supplied  be- 
fore, 

She  quickly  follows,  and  the  task  is 
o’er. 

Thus  when  the  hand  of  pyrotechnic 
skill 

Has  stored  the  spokes  of  the  fantastic 
wheel, 

Apply  the  flame  — it  spreads  as  is 
design’d, 


1 London  : Printed  for  W.  Simpkin,  and  R.  Marshall,  Stationers-hall  Court : and  J.  and 
J.  Jackson,  Louth.  MDCCCXXVII. 


STANZAS. 


837 


And  glides  and  lightens  o’er  the  track 
defined ; 

Unerring  on  its  faithful  pathway  burns, 

Searches  each  nook,  and  tracks  its 
thousand  turns ; 

The  well-fill’d  tubes  in  flexile  flame 
arrays, 

And  fires  each  winding  of  the  preg- 
nant maze ; 

Feeding  on  prompt  materials,  spurns 
delay, 

Till  o’er  the  whole  the  lambent  glories 
play. 

I know  no  joy  so  well  deserves  the 
name, 

None  that  more  justly  may  that  title 
claim, 

Than  that  of  which  the  poet  is  pos- 
sess’d 

When  warm  imagination  fires  his 
breast, 

And  countless  images  like  claimants 
throng, 

Prompting  the  ardent  ecstasy  of  song. 

He  walks  his  study  in  a dreaming 
mood, 

Like  Pythia’s  priestess  panting  with 
the  god; 

His  varying  brow,  betraying  what  he 
feels, 


The  labor  of  his  plastic  mind  reveals  : 

Now  roughly  furrow’d  into  anxious 
storms, 

If  with  much  toil  his  lab’ring  lines  he 
forms ; 

Now  brightening  into  triumph  as,  the 
skein 

Unravelling,  he  cons  them  o’er  again, 

As  each  correction  of  his  favorite 
piece 

Confers  more  smoothness,  elegance, 
or  ease. 

Such  are  the  sweets  of  song  — and  in 
this  age, 

Perchance  too  many  in  its  lists  en- 
gage; 

And  they  who  now  would  fain  awake 
the  lyre, 

May  swell  this  supernumerary  choir : 

But  ye,  who  deign  to  read,  forget  t’ 
apply 

The  searching  microscope  of  scrutiny  : 

Few  from  too  near  inspection  fail  to 
lose, 

Distance  on  all  a mellowing  haze 
bestows ; 

And  who  is  not  indebted  to  that  aid 

Which  throws  his  failures  into  wel- 
come shade  ? 


POEMS. 


STANZAS. 

Yon  star  of  eve,  so  soft  and  clear, 
Beams  mildly  from  the  realms  of 
rest ; 

And,  sure,  some  deathless  angel  there 
Lives  in  its  light  supremely  blest : 
Yet  if  it  be  a spirit’s  shrine, 

I think,  my  love,  it  must  be  thine. 

Oh  ! if  in  happier  worlds  than  this 
The  just  rejoice  — to  thee  is  giv’n 
To  taste  the  calm,  undying  bliss 
Eternally  in  that  blue  heav’n, 
Whither  thine  earnest  soul  would  flow, 
While  yet  it  linger’d  here  below. 


If  Beauty,  Wit,  and  Virtue  find 
In  heav’n  a more  exalted  throne, 

To  thee  such  glory  is  assign’d, 

And  thou  art  matchless  and  alone  : 
Who  lived  on  earth  so  pure  — - may 
grace 

In  heav’n  the  brightest  seraph’s  place. 

For  tho’  on  earth  thy  beauty’s  bloom 
Blush’d  in  its  spring,  and  faded  then. 
And,  mourning  o’er  thine  early  tomb, 
I weep  thee  still,  but  weep  in  vain  ; 
Bright  was  the  transitory  gleam 
That  cheer’d  thy  life’s  short  wav’ring 
dream. 


838 


“IN  EARLY  YOUTH  I LOST  MY  SIRE T 


Each  youthful  rival  may  confess 
Thy  look,  thy  smile,  beyond  com- 
pare, 

Nor  ask  the  palm  of  loveliness, 

When  thou  wert  more  than  doubly 
fair : 

Yet  ev’n  the  magic  of  that  form 

Drew  from  thy  mind  its  loveliest 
charm. 

Be  thou  as  the  immortal  are, 

Who  dwell  beneath  their  God’s  own 
wing ; 

A spirit  of  light,  a living  star, 

A holy  and  a searchless  thing : 

But  oh  ! forget  not  those  who  mourn, 

Because  thou  canst  no  more  return. 


“ IN  EARLY  YOUTH  I LOST  MY 
SIRE.” 

“ Hinc  mihi  prima  mali  labes.”  — Virgil. 
In  early  youth  I lost  my  sire, 

That  f ost’ring  guide,  which  all  require, 
But  chief  in  youth,  when  passion 
glows, 

And,  if  uncheck’d,  to  frenzy  grows, 
The  fountain  of  a thousand  woes. 

To  flowers  it  is  an  hurtful  thing 
To  lose  the  sunshine  in  the  spring ; 
Without  the  sun  they  cannot  bloom, 
And  seldom  to  perfection  come. 

E’en  so  my  soul,  that  might  have 
borne 

The  fruits  of  virtue,  left  forlorn, 

By  every  blast  of  vice  was  torn. 

Why  lowers  my  brow,  dost  thou  en- 
quire ? 

Why  burns  mine  eye  with  feverish 
fire '{ 

With  hatred  now,  and  now  with  ire  ? 
In  early  youth  I lost  my  sire. 

Erom  this  I date  whatever  vice 
Has  numb’d  my  feelings  into  ice ; 
From  this  — the  frown  upon  my  brow ; 
From  this  — the  pangs  that  rack  me 
now. 

My  wealth,  I can  with  safety  say, 
Ne’er  bought  me  one  unruffled  day, 
But  only  wore  my  life  away. 


The  pruning-knife  ne’er  lopp’d  a 
bough ; 

My  passions  spread,  and  strengthen’d 
too. 

The  chief  of  these  was  vast  ambition, 
That  long’d  with  eagle-wing  to  soar ; 
Nor  ever  soften’d  in  contrition, 

Tho’  that  wild  wing  were  drench’d 
in  gore. 

And  other  passions  play’d  their  part 
On  stage  most  fit  — a youthful  heart ; 
Till  far  beyond  all  hope  I fell, 

A play -thing  for  the  fiends  of  hell  — 
A vessel,  tost  upon  a deep 
Whose  stormy  waves  would  never 
sleep. 

Alas ! when  virtue  once  has  flown, 

We  need  not  ask  why  peace  is  gone  : 
If  she  at  times  a moment  play’d 
With  bright  beam  on  my  mind’s  dark 
shade, 

I knew  the  rainbow  soon  would  fade  ! 
Why  thus  it  is,  dost  thou  enquire  ? 
Why  bleeds  my  breast  with  tortures 
dire  ? 

Loathes  the  rank  earth,  yet  soars  not 
higher  'i 

In  early  youth  I lost  my  sire. 


MEMORY. 

“ The  memory  is  perpetually  looking  back 
when  we  have  nothing  present  to  entertain 
us:  it  is  like  those  repositories  in  animals 
that  are  filled  with  stores  of  food  on  which 
they  may  ruminate  when  their  present  past- 
ure fails.”  — Addison. 

Memory  ! dear  enchanter  ! 

Why  bring  back  to  view 

Dreams  of  youth,  which  banter 
All  that  e’er  was  true  1 

Why  present  before  me 
Thoughts  of  years  gone  by, 

Which,  like  shadows  o’er  me, 

Dim  in  distance  fly  ? 

Days  of  youth,  now  shaded 
By  twilight  of  long  years, 

Flowers  of  youth,  now  faded 

Though  bathed  in  sorrow’s  tears  ; 


MEM  OR  Y. 


S39 


Thoughts  of  youth,  which  waken 
Mournful  feelings  now, 

Fruits  which  time  hath  shaken 
From  off  their  parent  bough : 

Memory  ! why,  oh  why, 

This  fond  heart  consuming, 

Show  me  years  gone  by, 

When  those  hopes  were  blooming  ? 

Hopes  which  now  are  parted, 

Hopes  which  then  I prized, 

Which  this  world,  cold-hearted, 

Ne’er  has  realized  ? 

I knew  not  then  its  strife, 

I knew  not  then  its  rancor ; 

In  every  rose  of  life, 

Alas  ! there  lurks  a canker. 

Round  every  palm-tree,  springing 
, With  bright  fruit  in  the  waste, 

A mournful  asp  is  clinging, 

Which  sours  it  to  our  taste. 

O’er  every  fountain,  pouring 
Its  waters  thro’  the  wild, 

Which  man  imbibes,  adoring, 

And  deems  it  undefiled, 

The  poison-shrubs  are  dropping 
Their  dark  dews  day  by  day  ; 

And  Care  is  hourly  lopping 
Our  greenest  boughs  away  ! 

Ah ! these  are  thoughts  that  grieve 
me 

Then,  when  others  rest. 

Memory  ! why  deceive  me 
By  thy  visions  blest  ? 

Why  lift  the  veil,  dividing 

The  brilliant  courts  of  spring  — 
Where  gilded  shapes  are  gliding 
In  fairy  coloring  — 

From  age’s  frosty  mansion. 

So  cheerless  and  so  chill  1 
Why  bid  the  bleak  expansion 
Of  past  life  meet  us  still  ? 


Where’s  now  that  peace  of  mind 
O’er  youth’s  pure  bosom  stealing, 

So  sweet  and  so  refined. 

So  exquisite  a feeling  1 

Where’s  now  the  heart  exulting 
In  pleasure’s  buoyant  sense. 

And  gaiety,  resulting 

From  conscious  innocence  *? 

All,  all  have  past  and  fled, 

And  left  me  lorn  and  lonely ; 

All  those  dear  hopes  are  dead, 
Remembrance  wakes  them  only  ! 

I stand  like  some  lone  tower 
Of  former  days  remaining, 

Within  whose  place  of  power 
The  midnight  owl  is  plaining ; — 

Like  oak-tree  old  and  gray, 

Whose  trunk  with  age  is  failing. 

Thro’  whose  dark  boughs  for  aye 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing. 

Thus,  Memory,  thus  thy  light 
O’er  this  worn  soul  is  gleaming, 

Like  some  far  fire  at  night 

Along  the  dun  deep  streaming. 


“ YES  — THERE  BE  SOME  GAY 
SOULS  WHO  NEVER 
WEEP.” 

“ O Lachryraarum  tons,  tenero  sacros 
Ducentium  ortus  ex  ammo.” 

— Gray’s  Poemata. 

Yes  — there  be  some  gay  souls  who 
never  weep, 

And  some  who,  weeping,  hate  the 
tear  they  shed ; 

But  sure  in  them  the  heart’s  fine  feel- 
ings sleep, 

And  all  its  loveliest  attributes  are 
dead. 

For  oh  ! to  feel  it  swelling  to  the  eye, 

When  melancholy  thoughts  have 
sent  it  there, 


840 


HAVE  YE  NOT  SEEN  THE  BUOYANT  ORB?” 


Is  something  so  akin  to  ecstasy, 

So  true  a balm  to  misery  and  care, 

That  those  are  cold;  I ween,  who  can- 
not feel 

The  soft,  the  sweet,  the  exquisite 
control, 

Which  tears,  as  down  the  moisten’d 
cheek  they  steal, 

Hold  o’er  the  yielding  empire  of  the 
soul. 

They  soothe,  they  ease,  and  they  re- 
fine the  breast, 

And  blunt  the  agonizing  stings  of 
grief, 

And  lend  the  tortured  mind  a healing 
rest, 

A welcome  opiate,  and  a kind  relief. 

Then,  if  the  pow’r  of  woe  thou  wouldst 
disarm, 

The  tear  thy  burning  wounds  will 
gently  close ; 

The  rage  of  grief  will  sink  into  a 
calm, 

And  her  wild  frenzy  find  the  wish’d 
repose. 


“ HAVE  YE  NOT  SEEN  THE 
BUOYANT  ORB  1 ” 


“ A bubble  . . . 

That  in  the  act  of  seizing  shrinks  to 
naught.” 

— Clare. 

Have  ye  not  seen  the  buoyant  orb, 
which  oft 

The  tube  and  childhood’s  playful 
breath  produce  1 

Fair,  but  impalpable  — it  mounts 
aloft, 

While  o’er  its  surface  rove  the  rest- 
less hues  ; 

And  sun-born  tints  their  gliding 
bloom  diffuse  : 

But  ’twill  not  brook  the  touch  — 
the  vision  bright, 

Dissolved  with  instantaneous  burst, 
we  lose ; 


Breaks  the  thin  globe  with  its  array 
of  light 

And  shrinks  at  once  to  naught,  at 
contact  e’er  so  slight. 

So  the  gay  hopes  we  chase  with  ardent 
zeal  — 

Which  view’d  at  distance  to  our 
gaze  appear 

Sweetly  embodied,  tangible,  and 
real  — 

Elude  our  grasp,  and  melt  away  to 
air : 

The  test  of  touch  too  delicate  to  bear, 

In  unsubstantial  loveliness  thy  glow 

Before  our  wistful  eyes,  too  passing 
fair 

For  earth  to  realize  or  man  to 
know, 

Whose  life  is  but  a scene  of  fallacy 
and  woe. 


THE  EXILE’S  HARP. 

I will  hang  thee,  my  harp,  by  the 
side  of  the  fountain, 

On  the  whispering  branch  of  the 
lone-waving  willow : 

Above  thee  shall  rush  the  hoarse  gale 
of  the  mountain, 

Below  thee  shall  tumble  the  dark 
breaking  billow. 

The  winds  shall  blow  by  thee,  aban- 
don’d, forsaken, 

The  wild  gales  alone  shall  arouse 
thy  sad  strain  ; 

For  where  is  the  heart  or  the  hand  to 
awaken 

The  sounds  of  thy  soul-soothing 
sweetness  again  ? 

Oh ! harp  of  my  fathers  ! 

Thy  chords  shall  decay, 

One  by  one  with  the  strings 
Shall  thy  notes  fade  away ; 

Till  the  fiercest  of  tempests 
Around  thee  may  yell, 

And  not  waken  one  sound 
Of  thy  desolate  shell ! 

Yet,  oh ! yet,  ere  I go,  will  I fling  a 
wreath  round  thee, 

With  the  richest  of  flowers  in  the 
green  valley  springing ; 


“ WHY  SHOULD  WE  WEEP  FOR  THOSE  WHO  DIE?"  841 


Those  that  see  shall  remember  the 
hand  that  hath  crown’d  thee, 
When,  wither’d  and  dead,  to  thee 
still  they  are  clinging. 

There ! now  I have  wreathed  thee  — 
the  roses  are  twining 
Thy  chords  with  their  bright  blos- 
soms glowing  and  red : 

Though  the  lapse  of  one  day  see  their 
freshness  declining, 

Yet  bloom  for  one  day  when  thy 
minstrel  has  fled ! 

Oh ! harp  of  my  fathers  ! 

No  more  in  the  hall, 

The  souls  of  the  chieftains 
Thy  strains  shall  enthral : 

One  sweep  will  I give  thee, 

And  wake  thy  bold  swell ; 
Then,  thou  friend  of  my  bosom, 
Forever  farewell ! 


“ WHY  SHOULD  WE  WEEP  FOR 
THOSE  WHO  DIE?” 

“ Quamobrem,  si  dolorum  finem  mors 
affert,  si  securioris  et  melioris  initium  vitae: 
si  futura  mala  avertit  — cur  earn  tantopere 
accusare,  ex  qua  potius  consolationem  et 
la’titiam  haurire  fas  esset  ? ” — Cicero. 

Why  should  we  weep  for  those  who 
die  ? 

They  fall  — their  dust  returns  to 
dust ; 

Their  souls  shall  live  eternally 
Within  the  mansions  of  the  just. 

They  die  to  live  — they  sink  to  rise, 
They  leave  this  wretched  mortal 
shore ; 

But  brighter  suns  and  bluer  skies 
Shall  smile  on  them  forevermore. 

Why  should  we  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 

Our  life  on  earth  is  but  a span  ; 
They  tread  the  path  that  all  must 
tread, 

They  die  the  common  death  of 
man. 

The  noblest  songster  of  the  gale 
Must  cease,  when  Winter’s  frowns 
appear; 


The  reddest  rose  is  wan  and  pale, 
When  Autumn  tints  the  changing 
year. 

The  fairest  flower  on  earth  must  fade, 
The  brightest  hopes  on  earth  must 
die  : 

Why  should  we  mourn  that  man  was 
made 

To  droop  on  earth,  but  dwell  on 
high  ? 

The  soul,  th’  eternal  soul,  must  reign 
In  worlds  devoid  of  pain  and  strife  ; 

Then  why  should  mortal  man  com- 
plain 

Of  death,  which  leads  to  happier  life  ? 


“ RELIGION  ! THO’  WE  SEEM 
TO  SPURN.” 

“ Sublatam  ex  oculis  quaerimus.”  — Horace. 
Religion  ! tho’  we  seem  to  spurn 
Thy  hallow’d  joys,  their  loss  we 
mourn, 

With  many  a secret  tear  ; 

Tho’  we  have  long  dissolved  the  tie, 
The  hour  we  broke  it  claims  a sigh, 
And  Virtue  still  is  dear. 

Our  hearts  forget  not  she  was  fair, 
And  her  pure  feelings,  ling’ring  there, 
Half  win  us  back  from  ill ; 

And  — tho’  so  long  to  Vice  resign’d 
’Twould  seem  we’ve  left  her  far  be- 
hind — 

Pursue  and  haunt  us  still. 

Thus  light’s  all-penetrating  glow 
Attends  us  to  the  deeps  below, 

With  wav’ring,  rosy  gleam  : 

To  the  bold  inmates  of  the  bell 
Faint  rays  of  distant  sunlight1  steal, 
And  thro’  the  waters  beam. 

By  the  rude  blasts  of  passion  tost, 

We  sigh  for  bliss  we  ne’er  had  lost, 
Had  Conscience  been  our  guide  ; 
She  burns  a lamp  we  need  not  trim, 
Whose  steady  flame  is  never  dim, 

But  throws  its  lustre  wide. 

1A  vermeil  color  plays  on  the  hands  and 
faces  of  those  who  descend  in  this  machine. 


842 


REMORSE. 


REMORSE. 

“ . . . Sudant  tacita  praecordia  culpa.” 

— Juvenal. 

Oh  ! ’tis  a fearful  thing  to  glance 
Back  on  the  gloom  of  misspent 
years  : 

What  shadowy  forms  of  guilt  ad- 
vance, 

And  fill  me  with  a thousand  fears ! 
The  vices  of  my  life  arise, 

Portray’d  in  shapes,  alas  ! too  true  ; 
And  not  one  beam  of  hope  breaks 
through, 

To  cheer  my  old  and  aching  eyes, 

T’  illume  my  night  of  wretchedness 
My  age  of  anguish  and  distress. 

If  I am  damn’d,  why  find  I not 
Some  comfort  in  this  earthly  spot  ? 
But  no ! this  world  and  that  to  come 
Are  both  to  me  one  scene  of  gloom ! 
Lest  ought  of  solace  I should  see, 

Or  lose  the  thoughts  of  what  I do, 
Remorse,  with  soul-felt  agony, 

Holds  up  the  mirror  to  my  view. 
And  I was  cursed  from  my  birth, 

A reptile  made  to  creep  on  earth, 

An  hopeless  outcast,  born  to  die 
A living  death  eternally ! 

With  too  much  conscience  to  have 
rest, 

Too  little  to  be  ever  blest, 

To  yon  vast  world  of  endless  woe, 
Unlighted  by  the  cheerful  day, 

My  soul  shall  wing  her  weary  way ; 
To  those  dread  depths  where  aye 
the  same 

Throughout  the  waste  of  darkness, 
glow 

The  glimmerings  of  the  boundless 
flame. 

And  yet  I cannot  here  below 
Take  my  full  cup  of  guilt,  as  some, 
And  laugh  away  my  doom  to  come. 

I would  I’d  been  all-heartless  ! then 
I might  have  sinn’d  like  other  men  ; 
But  all  this  side  the  grave  is  fear, 

A wilderness  so  dank  and  drear, 

That  never  wholesome  plant  would 
spring  ; 

And  all  behind  — I dare  not  think ! 
I would  not  risk  th’  imagining  — 


From  the  full  view  my  spirits 
shrink ; 

And  starting  backwards,  yet  I cling 
To  life,  whose  every  hour  to  me 
Hath  been  increase  of  misery. 

But  yet  I cling  to  it,  for  well 

I know  the  pangs  that  rack  me 
now 

Are  trifles,  to  the  endless  hell 

That  waits  me,  when  my  burning 
brow 

And  my  wrung  eyes  shall  hope  in 
vain 

For  one  small  drop  to  cool  the  pain, 
The  fury  of  that  madd’ning  flame 
That  then  shall  scorch  my  writhing 
frame ! 

Fiends  ! who  have  goaded  me  to  ill ! 
Distracting  fiends,  who  goad  me  still ! 
If  e’er  I work’d  a sinful  deed, 

Ye  know  how  bitter  was  the 
draught ; 

Ye  know  my  inmost  soul  would  bleed, 
And  ye  have  look’d  at  me  and 
laugh’d 

Triumphing  that  I could  not  free 
My  spirit  from  your  slavery  ! 

Yet  is  there  that  in  me  which  says, 
Should  these  old  feet  their  course 
retread 

From  out  the  portal  of  my  days, 

That  I should  lead  the  life  I’ve  led  : 
My  agony,  my  torturing  shame, 

My  guilt,  my  errors  all  the  same ! 

0 God  ! that  thou  wouldst  grant  that 
ne’er 

My  soul  its  clay-cold  bed  forsake, 
That  I might  sleep,  and  never  wake 
Unto  the  thrill  of  conscious  fear ; 

For  when  the  trumpet’s  piercing 
cry 

Shall  burst  upon  my  slumb’ring  ear, 
And  countless  seraphs  throng  the 
sky, 

How  shall  I cast  my  shroud  away, 
And  come  into  the  blaze  of  day  'i 
How  shall  I brook  to  hear  each  crime, 
Here  veil’d  by  secrecy  and  time, 

Read  out  from  thine  eternal  book  ? 
How  shall  I stand  before  thy  throne, 
While  earth  shall  like  a furnace 
burn  ? 


THE  DELL  OF  E . 


843 


How  shall  I bear  the  withering  look 
Of  men  and  angels,  who  will  turn 
Their  dreadful  gaze  on  me  alone  ? 


“ON  GOLDEN  EVENINGS,  WHEN 
THE  SUN.” 


“ The  bliss  to  meet, 

And  the  pain  to  part!  ” — Moore. 

On  golden  evenings,  when  the  sun 
In  splendor  sinks  to  rest, 

How  we  regret,  when  they  are  gone. 
Those  glories  of  the  west, 

That  o’er  the  crimson-mantled  sky 
Threw  their  broad  flush  of  deepest 
dye! 

But  when  the  wheeling  orb  again 
Breaks  gorgeous  on  the  view, 

And  tints  the  earth  and  fires  the  main 
With  rich  and  ruddy  hue, 

We  soon  forget  the  eve  of  sorrow. 

For  joy  at  that  more  brilliant  morrow. 

E’en  so  when  much-loved  friends 
depart, 

Their  farewell  rends  the  swelling 
heart ; 

But  when  those  friends  again  we  see, 
We  glow  with  soul-felt  ecstasy, 

That  far  exceeds  the  tearful  feeling 
That  o’er  our  bosoms  then  was  steal- 
ing. 

The  rapture  of  that  joyous  day 
Bids  former  sorrows  fade  away; 

And  Memory  dwells  no  more  on  sad- 
ness 

When  breaks  that  sudden  morn  of 
gladness  ! 


THE  DELL  OF  E . 

li  Tantum  sevi  longinqua  valet  mutare  vetus- 
tas!  ” — Virgil. 

There  was  a long,  low,  rushy  dell, 
emboss’d 

With  knolls  of  grass  and  clumps  of 
copsewood  green ; 


Midway  a wandering  burn  the  valley 
cross’d, 

And  streak’d  with  silvery  line  the 
woodland  scene ; 

High  hills  on  either  side  to  heaven 
upsprung, 

Y-clad  with  groves  of  undulating 
pine, 

Upon  whose  heads  the  hoary  vapors 
hung, 

And  far  — far  off  the  heights  were 
seen  to  shine 

In  clear  relief  against  the  sapphire 
sky, 

And  many  a blue  stream  wander’d 
thro’  the  shade 

Of  those  dark  groves  that  clomb  the 
mountains  high, 

And  glistening  ’neath  each  lone 
entangled  glade, 

At  length  with  brawling  accent  loudly 
fell 

Within  the  limpid  brook  that  wound 
along  the  dell. 

How  pleasant  was  the  ever-varying 
light 

Beneath  that  emerald  coverture  of 
boughs ! 

How  often,  at  th’  approach  of  dewy 
night, 

Have  those  tall  pine-trees  heard  the 
lover’s  vows  ! 

How  many  a name  was  carved  upon 
the  trunk 

Of  each  old  hollow  willow-tree,  that 
stoop’d 

To  lave  its  branches  in  the  brook, 
and  drunk 

Its  freshening  dew ! How  many  a 
cypress  droop’d 

From  those  fair  banks,  where  bloom’d 
the  earliest  flowers, 

Which  the  young  year  from  her 
abounding  horn 

Scatters  profuse  within  her  secret 
bowers  ! 

What  rapturous  gales  from  that  wild 
dell  were  borne  ! 

And,  floating  on  the  rich  spring 
breezes,  flung 

Their  incense  o’er  that  wave  on  whose 
bright  banks  they  sprung ! 


844 


MY  BROTHER. 


Long  years  had  past,  and  there  again 
I came, 

But  man’s  rude  hand  had  sorely 
scathed  the  dell ; 

And  though  the  eloud-capt  mountains, 
still  the  same, 

Uprear’d  each  heaven-invading  pin- 
nacle ; 

Yet  were  the  charms  of  that  lone 
valley  fled, 

And  the  gray  winding  of  the  stream 
was  gone ; 

The  brook  once  murmuring  o’er  its 
pebbly  bed, 

Now  deeply  — straightly  — noise- 
lessly went  on. 

Slow  turn’d  the  sluggish  wheel  beneath 
its  force, 

Where  clattering  mills  disturb’d 
the  solitude : 

Where  was  the  prattling  of  its  former 
course  ? 

Its  shelving,  sedgy  sides  y-crown’d 
with  wood  1 

The  willow  trunks  were  fell’d,  the 
names  erased 

From  one  broad  shatter’d  pine  which 
still  its  station  graced. 

Remnant  of  all  its  brethren,  there  it 
stood, 

Braving  the  storms  that  swept  the 
cliffs  above, 

Where  once,  throughout  th’  impene- 
trable wood, 

Were  heard  the  plainings  of  the  pen- 
sive dove. 

But  man  had  bid  th’  eternal  forests  bow 

That  bloom’d  upon  the  earth-im- 
bedded base 

Of  the  strong  mountain,  and  per- 
chance they  now 

Upon  the  billows  were  the  dwelling- 
place 

Of  their  destroyers,  and  bore  terror 
round 

The  trembling  earth  : — ah  ! love- 
lier had  they  still 

Whisper’d  unto  the  breezes  with  low 
sound, 

And  greenly  flourish’d  on  their 
native  hill, 


And  flinging  their  proud  arms  in  state 
on  high, 

Spread  out  beneath  the  sun  their 
glorious  canopy  ! 


MY  BROTHER. 

“ Meorura  prime  sodalium.”  — Horace, 

With  falt'ring  step  I came  to  see, 

In  Death’s  unheeding  apathy, 

That  friend  so  dear  in  life  to  me. 

My  brother] 

’Mid  flowers  of  loveliest  scent  and  hue 
That  strew’d  thy  form,  ’twas  sad  to 
view 

Thy  lifeless  face  peep  wanly  through, 
My  brother ! 

Why  did  they  (there  they  did  not 
feel !) 

With  studious  care  all  else  conceal, 
But  thy  cold  face  alone  reveal, 

My  brother ! 

They  might  have  known,  what  used 
to  glow 

With  smiles,  and  oft  dispell’d  my  woe, 
Would  chill  me  most,  when  faded  so, 
My  brother ! 

The  tolling  of  thy  funeral  bell, 

The  nine  low  notes  that  spoke  thy 
knell, 

I know  not  how  I bore  so  well, 

My  brother ! 

But  oh ! the  chill,  dank  mould  that 
slid, 

Dull-sounding,  on  thy  coffin-lid, 

That  drew  more  tears  than  all  beside, 
My  brother! 

And  then  I hurried  fast  away  ; 

How  could  I e’er  have  borne  to  stay 
Where  careless  hand  inhumed  thy 
clay,  My  brother ! 


ANTONY  TO  CLEOPATRA. 
O Cleopatra  ! fare  thee  well, 

We  two  can  meet  no  more ; 


“/  WANDER  IN  DARKNESS  AND  SORROW .” 


845 


This  breaking  heart  alone  can  tell 
The  love  to  thee  I bore. 

But  wear  not  thou  the  conqueror’s 
chain 

Upon  thy  race  and  thee; 

And  though  we  ne’er  can  meet  again, 
Yet  still  be  true  to  me  : 

For  I for  thee  have  lost  a throne, 

To  wear  the  crown  of  love  alone. 

Fair  daughter  of  a regal  line ! 

To  thraldom  bow  not  tame ; 

My  every  wish  on  earth  was  thine, 
My  every  hope  the  same. 

And  I have  moved  within  thy  sphere, 
And  lived  within  thy  light  ; 

And  oh ! thou  wert  to  me  so  dear, 

I breathed  but  in  thy  sight ! 

A subject  world  I lost  for  thee, 

For  thou  wert  all  my  world  to  me ! 

Then  when  the  shriekingsof  the  dying 
Were  heard  along  the  wave, 

Soul  of  my  soul ! I saw  thee  flying  ; 

I follow’d  thee,  to  save. 

The  thunder  of  the  brazen  prows 
O’er  Actium’s  ocean  rung ; 

Fame’s  garland  faded  from  my  brows, 
Her  wreath  away  I flung. 

I sought,  I saw,  I heard  but  thee : 

For  what  to  love  was  victory? 

Thine  on  the  earth,  and  on  the  throne, 
And  in  the  grave,  am  I ; 

And,  dying,  still  I am  thine  own, 

Thy  bleeding  Antony. 

How  shall  my  spirit  joy  to  hear 
That  thou  art  ever  true  ! 

Nay  — weep  not  — dry  that  burning 
tear, 

That  bathes  thine  eyes’  dark  hue. 
Shades  of  my  fathers  ! lo  ! I come  ; 

I hear  your  voices  from  the  tomb  ! 


“I  WANDER  IN  DARKNESS 
AND  SORROW.” 

I wander  in  darkness  and  sorrow, 
Unfriended,  and  cold,  and  alone, 
As  dismally  gurgles  beside  me 
The  bleak  river’s  desolate  moan. 
The  rise  of  the  volleying  thunder 


The  mountain’s  lone  echoes  repeat : 
The  roar  of  the  wind  is  around  me, 
The  leaves  of  the  year  at  my  feet. 

I wander  in  darkness  and  sorrow, 
Uncheer’d  by  the  moon’s  placid  ray ; 
Not  a friend  that  I lov’d  but  is  dead, 
Not  a hope  but  has  faded  away ! 

Oh ! when  shall  I rest  in  the  tomb, 
Wrapt  about  with  the  chill  winding- 
sheet  ? 

For  the  roar  of  the  wind  is  around  me, 
The  leaves  of  the  year  at  my  feet. 

I heed  not  the  blasts  that  sweep  o’er 
me, 

I blame  not  the  tempests  of  night ; 
They  are  not  the  foes  who  have  ban- 
ish’d 

The  visions  of  youthful  delight : 

I hail  the  wild  sound  of  their  raving, 
Their  merciless  presence  I greet ; 
Though  the  roar  of  the  wind  be  around 
me, 

The  leaves  of  the  year  at  my  feet. 

In  this  waste  of  existence,  for  solace, 
On  whom  shall  my  lone  spirit  call  ? 
Shall  I fly  to  the  friends  of  my  bosom  ? 

My  God  ! I have  buried  them  all ! 
They  are  dead,  they  are  gone,  they 
are  cold, 

My  embraces  no  longer  they  meet ; 
Let  the  roar  of  the  wind  be  around 
me, 

The  leaves  of  the  year  at  my  feet ! 

Those  eyes  that  glanced  love  unto 
mine, 

With  motionless  slumbers  are  prest ; 
Those  hearts  which  once  throbb’d  but 
for  me, 

Are  chill  as  the  earth  where  they 
rest. 

Then  around  on  my  wan  wither’d  form 
Let  the  pitiless  hurricanes  beat ; 

Let  the  roar  of  the  wind  be  around  me. 
The  leaves  of  the  year  at  my  feet ! 

Like  the  voice  of  the  owl  in  the  hall, 
Where  the  song  and  the  banquet 
have  ceased, 


846 


TO  ONE  WHOSE  HOPE  REPOSED  ON  THEE: 


Where  the  green  leaves  have  mantled 
the  hearth 

Whence  arose  the  proud  flame  of 
the  feast ; 

So  I cry  to  the  storm,  whose  dark 
wing 

Scatters  on  me  the  wild-driving 
sleet  — 

“ Let  the  roar  of  the  wind  he  around  me, 
The  fall  of  the  leaves  at  my  feet ! ” 


“TO  ONE  WHOSE  HOPE  RE- 
POSED ON  THEE.” 

“ She’s  gone  . . . 

She’s  sunk,  with  her  ray  joys  entombing!  ” 
— Byron. 

To  one  whose  hope  reposed  on  thee, 
Whose  very  life  was  in  thine  own, 

How  deep  a wound  thy  death  must  be, 
And  the  wild  thought  that  thou  art 
gone ! 

Oh  ! must  the  earth-born  reptiles  prey 
Upon  that  cheek  of  late  so  bloom- 
ing 1 

Alas ! this  heart  must  wear  away 
Long  ere  that  cheek  they’ve  done 
consuming ! 

For  hire  the  sexton  toll’d  thy  bell  — 
But  why  should  he  receive  a meed 

Who  work’d  at  least  no  mortal’s  weal, 
And  made  one  lonely  bosom  bleed  ? 

For  hire  with  ready  mould  he  stood  — 
But  why  should  gain  his  care  repay 

Who  told,  as  harshly  as  he  could, 
That  all  I loved  was  past  away  1 

For,  sure,  it  was  too  rude  a blow 
For  Misery’s  ever-wakeful  ear, 

To  cast  the  earth  with  sudden  throw 
Upon  the  grave  of  one  so  dear  : 

For  aye  these  bitter  tears  must  swell, 
Tho’  the  sad  scene  is  past  and  gone  ; 

And  still  I hear  the  tolling  bell, 

For  Memory  makes  each  sense  her 
own. 


But  stay,  my  soul ! thy  plaint  forbear, 
And  be  thy  murm’ring  song  for- 
given ! 

Tread  but  the  path  of  Virtue  here, 
And  thou  shalt  meet  with  her 
in  heaven ! 


THE  OLD  SWORD. 

Old  Sword ! tho’  dim  and  rusted 
Be  now  thy  sheeny  blade, 

Thy  glitt’ring  edge  encrusted 
With  cankers  Time  hath  made; 

Yet  once  around  thee  swell’d  the 
cry 

Of  triumph’s  fierce  delight, 

The  shoutings  of  the  victory, 

The  thunders  of  the  fight ! 

Tho’  age  hath  past  upon  thee 
With  still  corroding  breath, 

Yet  once  stream’d  redly  on  thee 
The  purpling  tide  of  death  : 

What  time  amid  the  war  of  foes 
The  dastard’s  cheek  grew  pale, 
As  through  the  feudal  field  arose 
The  ringing  of  the  mail. 

Old  Sword  ! what  arm  hath  wielded 
Thy  richly  gleaming  brand, 

’Mid  lordly  forms  who  shielded 
The  maidens  of  their  land  ? 

And  who  hath  clov’n  his  foes  in 
wrath 

With  thy  puissant  fire, 

And  scatter’d  in  his  perilous  path 
The  victims  of  his  ire  % 

Old  Sword  ! whose  fingers  clasp’d  thee 
Around  thy  carved  hilt  % 

And  with  that  hand  which  grasp’d 
thee 

What  heroes’  blood  was  spilt ; 
When  fearlessly,  with  open  hearts, 
And  lance  to  lance  opposed, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  barbed 
darts 

The  dark-eyed  warriors  closed  ? 

Old  Sword!  I would  not  burnish 
Thy  venerable  rust, 

Nor  sweep  away  the  tarnish 


THE  GONDOLA . 


847 


Of  darkness  and  of  dust ! 

Lie  there,  in  slow  and  still  decay, 
Unfamed  in  olden  rhyme, 

The  relic  of  a former  day, 

A wreck  of  ancient  time  ! 


THE  GONDOLA. 

“ ’Tis  sweet  to  hear 

At  midnight,  o’er  the  blue  and  moonlit  deep, 

The  6ong  and  oar  of  Adria’s  gondolier.” 

— Don  Juan. 

O’er  ocean’s  curling  surges  borne 
along, 

Arion  sung  — the  dolphin  caught 
the  strain, 

As  soft  the  mellow’d  accents  of  his 
tongue 

Stole  o’er  the  surface  of  the  watery 
plain. 

And  do  those  silver  sounds,  so  deep, 
so  clear, 

Possess  less  magic  than  Arion’s  lay  ? 

Swell  they  less  boldly  on  the  ravish’d 
ear, 

Or  with  less  cadence  do  they  die 
away  ? 

Yon  gondola,  that  skims  the  moon- 
light sea, 

Yields  me  those  notes  more  wild 
than  Houri’s  lyre, 

That,  as  they  rise,  exalt  to  ecstasy, 

And  draw  the  tear  as,  lengthening, 
they  expire. 

An  arch  of  purest  azure  beams  above, 

A sea,  as  blue,  as  beauteous,  spreads 
below ; 

In  this  voluptuous  clime  of  song  and 
love 

What  room  for  sorrow  ? who  shall 
cherish  woe  ? 

False  thought!  tho’  pleasure  wing  the 
careless  hours, 

Th^ir stores  tho’ Cyprus  and  Arabia 
send, 

Tho’  for  the  ear  theirfascinating  power 

Divine  Timotheus  and  Cecilia 
blend;  — 


All  without  Virtue’s  relish  fail  to 
please, 

Venetian  charms  the  cares  of  Vice 
alloy, 

Joy’s  swiftest,  brightest  current  they 
can  freeze, 

And  all  the  genuine  sweets  of  life 
destroy ! 


“WE  MEET  NO  MORE.” 

We  meet  no  more  — the  die  is  cast, 
The  chain  is  broke  that  tied  us, 

Our  every  hope  on  earth  is  past, 

And  there’s  no  helm  to  guide  us  : 
We  meet  no  more  — the  roaring  blast 
And  angry  seas  divide  us  ! 

And  I stand  on  a distant  shore, 

The  breakers  round  me  swelling  ; 
And  lonely  thoughts  of  days  gone  o’er 
Have  made  this  breast  their  dwelling: 
W e meet  no  more  — We  meet  no  more : 
Farewell  forever,  Ellen  ! 


WRITTEN 

BY  AN  EXILE  OF  BASSORAH, 

WHILE  SAILING  DOWN  THE  EU- 
PHRATES. 

Thou  land  of  the  lily  ! thy  gay  flowers 
are  blooming 

In  joy  on  thine  hills,  but  they  bloom 
not  for  me  ; 

For  a dark  gulf  of  woe,  all  my  fond 
hopes  entombing, 

Has  roll’d  it’s  black  waves  ’twixt 
this  lone  heart  and  thee. 

The  far-distant  hills,  and  the  groves 
of  my  childhood, 

Now  stream  in  the  light  of  the  sun’s 
setting  ray ; 

And  the  tail-waving  palms  of  my  own 
native  wildwood 

In  the  blue  haze  of  distance  are 
melting  away. 

I see  thee,  Bassorah ! in  splendor  re- 
tiring, 

Where  thy  waves  and  thy  walls  in 
their  majesty  meet ; 


848 


MARIA  TO  HER  LUTE. 


I see  the  bright  glory  thy  pinnacles 
firing, 

And  the  broad  vassal  river  that  rolls 
at  thy  feet. 

I see  thee  but  faintly  — thy  tall  towers 
are  beaming 

On  the  dusky  horizon  so  far  and  so 
blue ; 

And  minaret  and  mosque  in  the  dis- 
tance are  gleaming, 

While  the  coast  of  the  stranger  ex- 
pands on  my  view. 

I see  thee  no  more : for  the  deep 
waves  have  parted 
The  land  of  my  birth  from  her 
desolate  son; 

And  I am  gone  from  thee,  though 
half  broken-hearted, 

To  wander  thro’  climes  where  thy 
name  is  unknown. 

Farewell  to  my  harp,  which  I hung  in 
my  anguish 

On  the  lonely  palmetto  that  nods  to 
the  gale ; 

For  its  sweet-breathing  tones  in  for- 
getfulness languish, 

And  around  it  the  ivy  shall  weave  a 
green  veil. 

Farewell  to  the  days  which  so  smoothly 
have  glided 

With  the  maiden  whose  lookwas  like 
Cama’s  young  glance, 

And  the  sheen  of  whose  eyes  was  the 
load-star  which  guided 
My  course  on  this  earth  thro’  the 
storms  of  mischance ! 


MARIA  TO  HER  LUTE, 

THE  GIFT  OF  HER  DYING  LOVER. 

“ O laborum 

Dulce  lenimen ! ” — Horace. 

I love  thee,  Lute  ! my  soul  is  link’d 
to  thee 

As  by  some  tie  — ’tis  not  a ground- 
less love ; 

I cannot  rouse  thy  plaintive  melody, 
And  fail  its  magic  influence  to  prove. 


I think  I found  thee  more  than  ever 
dear 

(If  thought  can  work  within  this 
fever’d  brain) 

Since  Edward’s  lifeless  form  was 
buried  here, 

And  I deplored  his  hapless  fate  in 
vain. 

’Twas  then  to  thee  my  strange  affec- 
tion grew, 

For  thou  wert  his  — I’ve  heard  him 
wake  thy  strain  : 

Oh  ! if  in  heaven  each  other  we  shall 
view, 

I’ll  bid  him  sweep  thy  mournful 
chords  again. 

I would  not  change  thee  for  the  noblest 
lyre 

That  ever  lent  its  music  to  the 
breeze  : 

How  could  Maria  taste  its  note  of  fire  ? 

How  wake  a harmony  that  could 
not  please  1 

Then,  till  mine  eye  shall  glaze,  and 
cheek  shall  fade, 

I’ll  keep  thee,  prize  thee  as  my  dear- 
est friend ; 

And  oft  I’ll  hasten  to  the  green-wood 
shade, 

My  hours  in  sweet,  tho’  fruitless 
grief  to  spend. 

For  in  the  tear  there  is  a nameless  joy  ; 

The  full  warm  gush  relieves  the 
aching  soul : 

So  still,  to  ease  my  hopeless  agony, 

My  lute  shall  warble  and  my  tears 
shall  roll. 


THE  VALE  OF  BONES. 

“ Albis  infurmem  — ossibus  agrura.” 

— Horace. 

Along  yon  vapor-mantled  sky 
The  dark-red  moon  is  riding  high; 

At  times  her  beams  in  beauty  break 
Upon  the  broad  and  silv’ry  lake  ; 

At  times  more  bright  they  clearly  fall 
On  some  white  castle’s  ruin’d  wall ; 


THE  VALE  OF  BONES. 


S49 


At  times  her  partial  splendor  shines 
Upon  the  grove  of  deep-black  pines, 
Through  which  the  dreary  night-breeze 
moans. 

Above  this  Vale  of  scatter’d  bones. 

The  low,  dull  gale  can  scarcely  stir 
The  branches  of  that  black’ning  fir, 
Which  betwixt  me  and  heav’n  flings 
wide 

Its  shadowy  boughs  on  either  side, 
And  o’er  yon  granite  rock  uprears 
Its  giant  form  of  many  years. 

And  the  shrill  owlet’s  desolate  wail 
Comes  to  mine  ear  along  the  gale, 

As,  list’ning  to  its  lengthen’d  tones, 

I dimly  pace  the  Vale  of  Bones. 

Dark  Valley!  still  the  same  art 
thou, 

Unchanged  thy  mountain’s  cloudy 
brow ; 

Still  from  yon  cliffs,  that  part  asunder, 
Falls  down  the  torrent’s  echoing 
thunder ; 

Still  from  this  mound  of  reeds  and 
rushes 

With  bubbling  sound  the  fountain 
gushes ; 

Thence,  winding  thro’  the  whisp’ring 
ranks 

Of  sedges  on  the  willowy  banks, 

Still  brawling,  chafesthe  rugged  stones 
That  strew  this  dismal  Vale  of  Bones. 

Unchanged  art  thou ! no  storm  hath 
rent 

Thy  rude  and  rocky  battlement ; 

Thy  rioting  mountains  sternly  piled, 
The  screen  of  nature,  wide  and  wild  : 
But  who  were  they  whose  bones  be- 
strew 

The  heather,  cold  with  midnight  dew, 
Upon  whose  slowly-rotting  clay 
The  raven  long  hath  ceased  to  prey, 
But,  mould’ring  in  the  moonlight  air, 
Their  wan,  white  sculls  show  bleak 
and  bare  ? 

And,  aye,  the  dreary  night-breeze 
moans 

Above  them  in  this  Vale  of  Bones  ! 


I knew  them  all  — a gallant  band, 
The  glory  of  their  native  land, 

And  on  each  lordly  brow  elate 
Sat  valor  and  contempt  of  fate, 
Fierceness  of  youth,  and  scorn  of  foe, 
And  pride  to  render  blow  for  blow. 

In  the  strong  war’s  tumultuous  crash 
How  darkly  did  their  keen  eyes  flash  ! 
How  fearlessly  each  arm  was  raised ! 
How  dazzlingly  each  broad-sword 
blazed ! 

Though  now  the  dreary  night-breeze 
moans 

Above  them  in  this  Vale  of  Bones. 

What  lapse  of  time  shall  sweep 
away 

The  memory  of  that  gallant  day, 
When  on  to  battle  proudly  going, 
Your  plumage  to  the  wild  winds  blow- 
ing, 

Your  tartans  far  behind  ye  flowing, 
Your  pennons  raised,  your  clarions 
sounding, 

Fiercely  your  steeds  beneath  ye  bound- 
ing, 

Ye  mix’d  the  strife  of  warring  foes 
In  fiery  shock  and  deadly  close  ? 
What  stampings  in  the  madd’ning 
strife, 

What  thrusts,  what  stabs,  with  brand 
and  knife, 

What  desp’rate  strokes  for  death  or 
life, 

Were  there  ! What  cries,  what  thrill- 
ing groan!! 

Re-echoed  thro’  the  Vale  of  Bones ! 

Thou  peaceful  Vale,  whose  moun- 
tains lonely 

Sound  to  the  torrent’s  chiding  only, 
Or  wild  goat’s  cry  from  rocky  ledge, 
Or  bull-frog  from  the  rustling  sedge, 
Or  eagle  from  her  airy  cairn, 

Or  screaming  of  the  startled  hern  — 
How  did  thy  million  echoes  waken 
Amid  thy  caverns  deeply  shaken ! 
How  with  the  red  dew  o’er  thee  rain’d 
Thine  emerald  turf  was  darkly  stain’d  ! 
How  did  each  innocent  flower,  that 
sprung 

Thy  greenly-tangled  glades  among, 


850 


TO  FANCY, ; 


Blush  with  the  big  and  purple  drops 
That  dribbled  from  the  leafy  copse ! 

I paced  the  valley,  when  the  yell 
Of  triumph’s  voice  had  ceased  to  swell ; 
When  battle’s  brazen  throat  no  more 
Raised  its  annihilating  roar. 

There  lay  ye  on  each  other  piled, 
Your  brows  with  noble  dust  defiled  ; 1 
There,  by  the  loudly-gushing  water, 
Lay  man  and  horse  in  mingled 
slaughter. 

Then  wept  I not,  thrice  gallant  band  ; 
For  though  no  more  each  dauntless 
hand 

The  thunder  of  the  combat  hurl’d, 
Yet  still  with  pride  your  lips  were 
curl’d ; 

And  e’en  in  death’s o’erwhelmingshade 
Your  fingers  linger’d  round  the  blade  ! 
I deem’d,  when  gazing  proudly  there 
Upon  the  fix’d  and  haughty  air 
That  mark’d  each  warrior’s  bloodless 
face, 

Ye  would  not  change  the  narrow  space 
Which  each  cold  form  of  breathless 
clay 

Then  cover’d,  as  on  earth  ye  lay, 

For  realms,  for  sceptres,  or  for 
thrones  — 

I dream’d  not  on  this  Vale  of  Bones ! 

But  years  have  thrown  their  veil 
between, 

And  alter’d  is  that  lonely  scene ; 

And  dreadful  emblems  of  thy  might, 
Stern  dissolution  ! mfcet  my  sight : 
The  eyeless  socket,  dark  and  dull, 
The  hideous  grinning  of  the  skull, 
Are  sights  which  Memory  disowns, 
Thou  melancholy  Vale  of  Bones! 


TO  FANCY. 

Bright  angel  of  heavenliest  birth  ! 

Who  dwellest  among  us  unseen, 
O’er  the  gloomiest  spot  on  the  earth 
There’s  a charm  where  thy  footsteps 
have  been. 

We  feel  thy  soft  sunshine  in  youth, 

1 “ Non  indecoro  pulvere  sordidos.” 

— Horace. 


While  our  joys  like  young  blossoms 
are  new ; 

For  oh  ! thou  art  sweeter  than  Truth, 
And  fairer  and  lovelier  too  ! 

The  exile,  who  mourneth  alone, 

Is  glad  in  the  glow  of  thy  smile, 

Tho’  far  from  the  land  of  his  own, 

In  the  ocean’s  most  desolate  isle  : 

And  the  captive,  who  pines  in  his 
chain, 

Sees  the  banners  of  glory  unroll’d, 

As  he  dreams  of  his  own  native  plain, 
And  the  forms  of  the  heroes  of  old. 

In  the  earliest  ray  of  the  morn, 

In  the  last  rosy  splendor  of  even, 

We  view  thee  — thy  spirit  is  borne 
On  the  murmuring  zephyrs  of 
heaven : 

Thou  art  in  the  sunbeam  of  noon, 
Thou  art  in  the  azure  of  air, 

If  I pore  on  the  sheen  of  the  moon, 

If  I search  the  bright  stars,  thou 
art  there ! 

Thou  art  in  the  rapturous  eye 

Of  the  bard,  when  his  visions  rush 
o’er  him; 

And  like  the  fresh  iris  on  high 

Are  the  wonders  that  sparkle  before 
him. 

Thou  stirrest  the  thunders  of  song, 
Those  transports  that  brook  not 
control ; 

Thy  voice  is  the  charm  of  his  tongue, 
Thy  magic  the  light  of  his  soul ! 

Like  the  day-star  that  heralds  the  sun, 
Thou  seem’st,  when  our  young  hopes 
are  dawning ; 

But  ah  ! when  the  day  is  begun, 

Thou  art  gone  like  the  star  of  the 
morning ! 

Like  a beam  in  the  winter  of  years, 
When  the  joys  of  existence  are  cold, 

Thine  image  can  dry  up  our  tears, 
And  brighten  the  eyes  of  the  old ! 

Tho’  dreary  and  dark  be  the  night 
Of  affliction  that  gathers  around, 


BOYHOOD, 


851 


There  is  something  of  heaven  in  thy 
light, 

Glad  spirit ! where’er  thou  art  found : 
As  calmly  the  sea-maid  may  lie 
In  her  pearly  pavilion  at  rest, 

The  heart-broken  and  friendless  may 

ny 

To  the  shade  of  thy  bower,  and  be 
blest! 


BOYHOOD. 

“ Ah,  happy  years ! once  more  who  would 
not  he  a boy  ? ” — Childe  Harold. 

Boyhood’s  blest  hours  ! when  yet  un- 
fledged and  callow, 

We  prove  those  joys  we  never  can 
retain, 

In  riper  years  with  fond  regret  we 
hallow, 

Like  some  sweet  scene  we  never  see 
again. 

F or  youth  — whate’er  may  be  its  petty 
woes, 

Its  trivial  sorrows  — disappoint- 
ments — fears, 

As  on  in  haste  life’s  wintry  current 
flows  — 

Still  claims,  and  still  receives,  its 
debt  of  tears. 

Yes ! when,  in  grim  alliance,  grief  and 
time 

Silver  our  heads  and  rob  our  hearts 
of  ease, 

We  gaze  along  the  deeps  of  care  and 
crime 

To  the  far,  fading  shore  of  youth 
and  peace ; 

Each  object  that  we  meet  the  more 
endears 

That  rosy  morn  before  a troubled 
day ; 

That  blooming  dawn  — that  sunrise 
of  our  years  — 

That  sweet  voluptuous  vision  past 
away ! 

For  by  the  welcome,  tho’  embittering 
power 


Of  wakeful  memory,  we  tco  well 
behold 

That  lightsome — careless  — unreturn- 
ing hour, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  wishes  or  of 
gold. 

And  ye,  whom  blighted  hopes  or  pas- 
sion’s heat 

Have  taught  the  pangs  that  care- 
worn hearts  endure, 

Ye  will  not  deem  the  vernal  rose  so 
sweet ! 

Ye  will  not  call  the  driven  snow  so 
pure ! 


“ DID  NOT  THY  ROSEATE  LIPS 
OUTVIE.” 

“ Ulla  si  juris  tibi  pejerati 
Poena,  Barine,  nocuisset  unquam; 
Denti  si  nigro  fieres,  vel  uno 
Turpior  uugui 
Crederem.”  — Horace. 

Did  not  thy  roseate  lips  outvie 
The  gay  anana’s  spicy  bloom;1 
Had  not  thy  breath  the  luxury, 

The  richness  of  its  deep  perfume  — 

Were  not  the  pearls  it  fans  more  clear 
Than  those  which  grace  the  valved 
shell ; 

Thy  foot  more  airy  than  the  deer, 
When  startled  from  his  lonely 
dell  — 

Were  not  thy  bosom’s  stainless  white- 
ness, 

Where  angel  loves  their  vigils  keep, 
More  heavenly  than  the  dazzling 
brightness 

Of  the  cold  crescent  on  the  deep  — 

Were  not  thine  eye  a star  might  grace 
Yon  sapphire  concave  beaming 
clear, 

Or  fill  the  vanish’d  Pleiad’s  place, 
And  shine  for  aye  as  brightly  there — 

1Ulloa  says  that  the  blossom  of  the  West- 
Indian  anana  is  of  so  elegant  a crimson  as 
even  to  dazzle  the  eye,  and  that  the  fragrancy 
of  the  fruit  discovers  the  plant,  though  con- 
cealed from  sight.  — See  Ulloa’s  Voyages, 
vol.  i.,  p.  72. 


852 


HUNTSMAN'S  SONG. 


Had  not  thy  locks  the  golden  glow 
That  robes  the  gay  and  early  east, 

Thus  falling  in  luxuriant  flow 

Around  thy  fair  but  faithless  breast: 

I might  have  deem’d  that  thou  wert  she 
Of  the  Cumsean  cave,  who  wrote 

Each  fate-involving  mystery 

Upon  the  feathery  leaves  that  float, 

Borne  thro’  the  boundless  waste  of  air, 
Wherever  chance  might  drive  along. 

But  she  was  wrinkled  — thou  art  fair  : 
And  she  was  old  — but  thou  art 
young. 

Her  years  were  as  the  sands  that  strew 
The  fretted  ocean-beach;  but  thou — 

Triumphant  in  that  eye  of  blue, 
Beneath  thy  smoothly  - marbled 
brow ; 

Exulting  in  thy  form  thus  moulded, 
By  nature’s  tenderest  touch  design’d; 

Proud  of  the  fetters  thou  hast  folded 
Around  this  fond  deluded  mind  — 

Heceiyest  still  with  practised  look, 
With  fickle  vow,  and  well-feign’d 
sigh. 

I tell  thee,  that  I will  not  brook 
Reiterated  perjury! 

Alas  ! I feel  thy  deep  control, 

E’en  now  when  I would  break  thy 
chain : 

But  while  I seek  to  gain  thy  soul, 

Ah  ! say  — hast  thou  a soul  to  gain  ? 


HUNTSMAN’S  SONG. 

“ Who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? ” 

— Beattie. 

Oh  ! what  is  so  sweet  as  a morning  in 
spring, 

When  the  gale  is  all  freshness,  and 
larks,  on  the  wing, 

In  clear  liquid  carols  their  gratitude 
sing  ? 

I rove  o’er  the  hill  as  it  sparkles  with 
dew, 


And  the  red  flush  of  Phoebus  with 
ecstasy  view, 

As  he  breaks  thro’  the  east  o’er  thy 
crags,  Ben  venue! 

And  boldly  I bound  o’er  the  mountain- 
ous scene, 

Like  the  roe  which  I hunt  thro’  the 
woodlands  so  green, 

Or  the  torrent  which  leaps  frorii  the 
height  to  the  plain. 

The  life  of  the  hunter  is  chainless  and 
gay, 

As  the  wing  of  the  falcon  that  wins 
him  his  prey : 

No  song  is  so  glad  as  his  blithe  rounde- 
lay. 

His  eyes  in  soft  arbors  the  Moslem 
may  close, 

And  Fayoum’s  rich  odors  may  breathe 
from  the  rose, 

To  scent  his  bright  harem  and  lull  his 
repose : 

Th’  Italian  may  vaunt  of  his  sweet 
harmony, 

And  mingle  soft  sounds  of  voluptuous 
glee ; 

But  the  lark’s  airy  music  is  sweeter 
to  me. 

Then  happy  the  man  who  upsprings 
with  the  morn, 

But  not  from  a couch  of  effeminate 
lawn, 

And  slings  o’er  his  shoulder  his  loud 
bugle-horn ! 


PERSIA. 

“ The  flower  and  choice 
Of  many  provinces  from  hound  to  bound.” 
— Milton. 

Land  of  bright  eye  and  lofty  brow ! 
Whose  every  gale  is  balmy  breath 
Of  incense  from  some  sunny  flower, 
Which  on  tall  hill  or  valley  low, 

In  clustering  maze  or  circling  wreath, 
Sheds  perfume ; or  in  blooming 
bower 


EGYPT. 


S53 


Of  Schiraz  or  of  Ispahan, 

In  bower  untrod  by  foot  of  man, 
Clasps  round  the  green  and  fragrant 
stem 

Of  lotos,  fair  and  fresh  and  blue, 
And  crowns  it  with  a diadem 

Of  blossoms,  ever  young  and  new ; 
Oh ! lives  there  yet  within  thy  soul 
Aught  of  the  fire  of  him  who  led 
Thy  troops,  and  bade  thy  thunder  roll 
O’er  lone  Assyria’s  crownless  head  % 
I tell  thee,  had  that  conqueror  red 
From  Thymbria’s  plain  beheld 
thy  fall, 

When  stormy  Macedonia  swept 

Thine  honors  from  thee  one  and 
all, 

He  would  have  wail’d,  he  would  have 
wept, 

That  thy  proud  spirit  should  have 
bow’d 

To  Alexander,  doubly  proud. 

Oh,  Iran ! Iran  ! had  he  known 
The  downfall  of  his  mighty  throne, 
Or  had  he  seen  that  fatal  night, 

When  the  young  king  of  Macedon 
In  madness  led  his  veterans  on, 
And  Thais  held  the  funeral  light, 
Around  that  noble  pile  which  rose 
Irradiant  with  the  pomp  of  gold, 

In  high  Persepolis  of  old, 
Encompass’d  with  its  frenzied  foes  ; 
He  would  have  groan’d,  he  would 
have  spread 

The  dust  upon  his  laurell’d  head, 

To  view  the  setting  of  that  star, 
Which  beam’d  so  gorgeously  and  far 
O’er  Anatolia  and  the  fane 
Of  Belus,  and  Ca'ister’s  plain, 

And  Sardis,  and  the  glittering  sands 
Of  bright  Pactolus,  and  the  lands 
Where  Croesus  held  his  rich  domain : 
On  fair  Diarbeck’s  land  of  spice,1 
Adiabene’s  plains  of  rice, 

Where  down  th’  Euphrates,  swift  and 
strong, 

The  shield-likekuphars bound  along;2 
And  sad  Cunaxa’s  field,  where,  mixing 
With  host  to  adverse  host  opposed, 

1 Xenophon  says  that  every  shrub  in  these 
wilds  had  an  aromatic  odor. 

2 Kennel  on  Herodotus. 


’Mid  clashing  shield  and  spear  trans- 
fixing, 

The  rival  brothers  sternly  closed. 
And  further  east,  where, broadly  roll’d, 
Old  Indus  pours  his  stream  of  gold ; 
And  there  where,  tumbling  deep  and 
hoarse, 

Blue  Ganga  leaves  her  vaccine  source  j1 
Loveliest  of  all  the  lovely  streams 
That  meet  immortal  Titan’s  beams, 
And  smile  upon  their  fruitful  way 
Beneath  his  golden  Orient  ray  : 

And  southward  to  Cilicia’s  shore, 
Where  Cydnus  meets  the  billows’  roar, 
And  where  the  Syrian  gates  divide 
The  meeting  realms  on  either  side ; 2 
E’en  to  the  land  of  Nile,  whose  crops 
Bloom  rich  beneath  his  bounteous 
swell, 

To  hot  Syene’s  wondrous  well. 

Nigh  to  the  long-lived  JEthiops. 

And  northward  far  to  Trebizonde, 
Renown’d  for  kings  of  chivalry, 
Near  where  old  Hyssus,  rolling  from 
’ the  strand, 

Disgorges  in  the  Euxine  Sea  — 

The  Euxine,  falsely  named,  which 
whelms 

The  mariner  in  the  heaving  tide, 

To  high  Sinope’s  distant  realms, 
Whence  cynics  rail’d  at  human  pride. 


EGYPT. 

“ Egypt’s  palmy  groves, 

Her  grots,  aud  sepulchres  of  kings.” 

— Moore’s  Lalla  llookh. 

The  sombre  pencil  of  the  dim-gray 
dawn 

Draws  a faint  sketch  of  Egypt  to 
mine  eye. 

As  yet  uncolor’d  by  the  brilliant 
morn, 

And  her  gay  orb  careering  up  the  sky. 

1 The  cavern  in  the  ridge  of  Himmalah, 
whence  the  Ganges  seems  to  derive  its  origi- 
nal springs,  has  "been  moulded,  by  the  mind 
of  Hindoo  superstition,  into  the  head  of  a cow. 

2 See  Xenophon’s  “ Expeditio  Cyri.” 


854 


THE  DRUID'S  PROPHECIES. 


And  see ! at  last  he  comes  in  radiant 
pride, 

Life  in  his  eye,  and  glory  in  his 
ray  ; 

No  veiling  mists  his  growing  splendor 
hide, 

And  hang  their  gloom  around  his 
golden  way. 

The  flowery  region  brightens  in  his 
smile, 

Her  lap  of  blossoms  freights  the 
passing  gale, 

That  robs  the  odors  of  each  balmy 
isle, 

Each  fragrant  field  and  aromatic 
vale. 

But  the  first  glitter  of  his  rising  beam 

Falls  on  the  broad-based  pyramids 
sublime, 

As  proud  to  show  us  with  his  earliest 
gleam 

Those  vast  and  hoary  enemies  of 
Time. 

E’en  History’s  self,  whose  certain 
scrutiny 

Few  eras  in  the  list  of  Time  beguile, 

Pauses,  and  scans  them  with  aston- 
ish’d eye, 

As  unfamiliar  with  their  aged  pile. 

Awful,  august,  magnificent,  they 
tower 

Amid  the  waste  of  shifting  sands 
around ; 

The  lapse  of  year  and  month  and  day 
and  hour, 

Alike  unfelt,  perform  th’  unwearied 
round. 

How  often  hath  yon  day-god’s  burn- 
ing light, 

From  the  clear  sapphire  of  his 
stainless  heaven, 

Bathed  their  high  peaks  in  noontide 
brilliance  bright, 

Gilded  at  morn,  and  purpled  them  at 
even ! 1 

1 See  Savary’s  letters. 


THE  DRUID’S  PROPHECIES.1 

Mona  ! with  flame  thine  oaks  are 
streaming, 

Those  sacred  oaks  we  rear’d  on 
high : 

Lo ! Mona,  lo ! the  swords  are  gleaming 

Adown  thine  hills  confusedly. 

Ilark ! Mona,  hark ! the  chargers’ 
neighing ! 

The  clang  of  arms  and  helmets 
bright ! 

The  crash  of  steel,  the  dreadful  bray- 
ing 

Of  trumpets  thro’  the  madd’ning 
fight ! 

Exalt  your  torches,  raise  your  voices ; 

Your  thread  is  spun  — your  day  is 
brief ; 

Yea  ! howl  for  sorrow ! Rome  rejoices, 

But  Mona  — Mona  bends  in  grief ! 

But  woe  to  Rome,  though  now  she 
raises 

Yon  eagles  of  her  haughty  power; 
Though  now  her  sun  of  conquest 
blazes, 

Yet  soon  shall  come  her  darkening 
hour ! 

Woe,  woe  to  him  who  sits  in  glory, 

Enthroned  on  thine  hills  of  pride  ! 
Can  he  not  see  the  poignard  gory  , 

With  his  best  lieart’s-blood  deeply 
dyed  ? 

Ah  ! what  avails  his  gilded  palace, 

Whose  wings  the  seven-hill’d  town 
enfold  ? 2 

The  costly  bath,  the  crystal  chalice  ? 

The  pomp  of  gems,  the  glare  of 
gold  ? 

1 “ Stabat  pro  littore  diversa  acies,  densa 
armis  virisque,  intercursantibus  feminis  in 
moduni  Furiarum,  quae  veste  ferali,  crinibue 
dejeetis,  faces  praeferebant.  Druidaeque 
circura,  preces  diras,  sublatis  ad  coelura  ma- 
nibus,  fuudentes,”  etc. — Tacit.,  Annal.  xiv., 
c.  30. 

2 Pliny  says  that  the  golden  palace  of  Nero 
extended  all  round  the  city. 


THE  DRUID'S  PROPHECIES. 


S55 


See  where,  by  heartless  anguish 
driven, 

Crownless  he  creeps  ’mid  circling 
thorns;  1 

Around  him  flash  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
And  angry  earth  before  him  yawns.'2 

Then,  from  his  pinnacle  of  splendor, 
The  feeble  king,3  with  locks  of  gray, 
Shall  fall,  and  sovereign  Rome  shall 
render 

Her  sceptre  to  the  usurper’s  4 sway. 

Who  comes  with  sounds  of  mirth  and 
gladness, 

Triumphing  o’er  the  prostrate 
dead  1 5 

Ay,  me ! thy  mirth  shall  change  to 
sadness, 

When  Vengeance  strikes  thy  guilty 
head. 

Above  thy  noonday  feast  suspended, 
High  hangs  in  air  a naked  sword  : 
Thy  days  are  gone,  thy  joys  are  ended, 
The  cup,  the  song,  the  festal  board. 

Then  shall  the  eagle’s  shadowy  pinion 
Be  spread  beneath  the  eastern 
skies ; 6 

And  dazzling  far  with  wide  dominion, 
Five  brilliant  stars  shall  brightly 
rise.7 

Then,  coward  king ! 8 the  helpless  aged 

1“Ut  ad  diverticulum  ventum  est,  di- 
missis  equis  inter  fruticeta  ac  vepres,  per 
arundineti  semitam  aegre,  nec  nisi  strata  sub 
pedibus  veste,  ad  adversum  villae  parietem 
evasit.”  — Sueton.,  Vit.  Ccesar. 

2 “ Statimque  tremore  terras,  et  fulgure  ad- 
verso  pavefactus,  audiit  ex  proximis  castris 
clamorem,”  etc.  — Ibid. 

3 Galba. 

4 Otho. 

5 “ Utque  campos,  in  quibus  pugnatum  est, 
adiit  [£.  e.,  Vitellins]  plurimum  meri  propa- 
lam  hausit,”  etc.  — Sueton. 

6 At  the  siege  of  Jerusalem. 

7 The  five  good  emperors : Nerva,  Trajan, 
Adrian,  Antoninus  Pius,  and  Marcus  Aure- 
lius, or  Antoninus  the  Philosopher.  Perhaps 
the  best  commentary  on  the  life  and  virtues 
of  the  last  is  his  own  volume  of  “ Medita- 
tions.” 

8 “ Debiles  pedibus,  et  eos,  qui  ambulare 
non  possent,  in  gigantum  raodura,  ita  ut  a 
genibus  dc  pannis  et  linteis  quasi  dracones 


Shall  bow  beneath  thy  dastard 
blow ; 

But  reckless  hands  and  hearts,  en- 
raged, 

By  double  fate  shall  lay  thee  low.1 

And  two,2  with  death-wounds  deeply 
mangled, 

Low  on  their  parent  earth  shall  lie  ; 
Fond  wretches!  ah!  too  soon  entan- 
gled 

Within  the  snares  of  royalty. 

Then  comes  that  mighty  one  victorious 
In  triumph  o’er  this  earthly  ball,3 
Exulting  in  his  conquests  glorious  — 
Ah  ! glorious  to  his  country’s  fall ! 

But  thou  shalt  see  the  Romans  flying, 

0 Albyn ! with  yon  dauntless 

ranks ; 4 

And  thou  shalt  view  the  Romans 
dying, 

Blue  Carun ! on  thy  mossy  banks. 

But  lo ! what  dreadful  visions  o’er  me 
Are  bursting  on  this  aged  eye  ! 
What  length  of  bloody  train  before 
me 

In  slow  succession  passes  by ! 5 

Thy  hapless  monarchs  fall  together, 
Like  leaves  in  winter’s  stormy  ire ; 
Some  by  the  sword,  and  some  shall 
wither 

By  lightning’s  flame  and  fever’s 
fire.6 

digererentur ; eosdemque  sagitis  confecit.”  — 
Ml.  Lamprid.  in  Vita  Comm.  Such  were 
the  laudable  amusements  of  Commodus! 

1 He  was  first  poisoned ; but  the  operation 
not  fully  answering  the  wishes  of  his  be- 
loved, he  was  afterward  strangled  by  a 
robust  wrestler. 

2 Pertinax  and  Didius  Julian. 

3 Severus,  who  was  equally  victorius  in 
the  Eastern  and  Western  World  : but  those 
conquests,  however  glorious,  were  conducive 
to  the  ruin  of  the  Roman  Empire. — See 
Gibbon,  vol.  vi.,  chap,  v.,  p.  203. 

4 In  allusion  to  the  real  or  feigned  victory 
obtained  by  Fingal  over  Caracul,  or  Cara- 
calla.  — See  Ossian. 

5 Very  few  of  the  emperors  after  Severus 
escaped  assassination. 

0 Macrinus,  Heliogabalus,  Alexander,  Max 


856 


LINES. 


They  come ! they  leave  their  frozen 
regions, 

Where  Scandinavia’s  wilds  extend ; 

And  Rome,  though  girt  with  dazzling 
legions, 

Beneath  their  blasting  power  shall 
bend. 

Woe,  woe  to  Rome!  though  tall  and 
ample 

She  rears  her  domes  of  high  re- 
nown ; 

Yet  fiery  Goths  shall  fiercely  trample 

The  grandeur  of  her  temples  down ! 

She  sinks  to  dust;  and  who  shall  pity 

Her  dark  despair  and  hopeless 
groans  ? 

There  is  a wailing  in  her  city  — 

Her  babes  are  dash’d  against  the 
stones  ! 

Then,  Mona  ! then,  though  wan  and 
blighted 

Thy  hopes  be  now  by  Sorrow’s 
dearth, 

Then  all  thy  wrongs  shall  be  re- 
quited — 

The  Queen  of  Nations  bows  to 
earth ! 


LINES.1 

The  eye  must  catch  the  point  that 
shows 

The  pensile  dew-drop’s  twinkling 
gleam, 

Where  on  the  trembling  blade  it 
glows, 

Or  hueless  hangs  the  liquid  gem. 

Thus  do  some  minds  unmark’d  appear 
By  aught  that’s  generous  or  divine, 
Unless  we  view  them  in  the  sphere 
Where  with  their  fullest  light  they 
shine. 

imin  Pupienus,  Balbinus,  Gordian,  Philip, 
etc.,  were  assassinated;  Claudius  died  of  a 
pestilential  fever;  and  Carus  was  struck 
dead  by  lightning  in  his  tent. 

1 To  one  who  entertained  a light  opinion 
of  an  eminent  character,  because  too  impa- 
tient to  wait  for  its  gradual  development. 


Occasion  — circumstance  — - give  birth 
To  charms  that  else  unheeded  lie, 
And  call  the  latent  virtues  forth 
To  break  upon  the  wond’ring  eye. 

E’en  he  your  censure  has  enroll’d 
So  rashly  with  the  cold  and  dull, 
Waits  but  occasion  to  unfold 
An  ardor  and  a force  of  soul. 

Go  then,  impetuous  youth,  deny 
The  presence  of  the  orb  of  day, 
Because  November’s  cloudy  sky 
Transmits  not  his  resplendent  ray. 

Time,  and  the  passing  throng  of 
things, 

Full  well  the  mould  of  minds  betray, 
And  each  a clearer  prospect  brings : — 
Suspend  thy  judgment  for  a day. 


SWISS  SONG. 

I love  St.  Gothard’s  head  of  snows, 
That  shoots  into  the  sky, 

Where,  yet  unform’d,  in  grim  repose 
Ten  thousand  avalanches  lie. 

I love  Lucerne’s  transparent  lake, 
And  Jura’s  hills  of  pride, 

Whence  infant  rivers,  gushing,  break 
With  small  and  scanty  tide. 

And  tliou,  Mont  Blanc ! thou  mighty 
pile 

Of  crags  and  ice  and  snow; 

The  Gallic  foes  in  wonder  smile 
That  we  should  love  thee  so ! 

But  we  were  nurst  within  thy  breast, 
And  taught  to  brave  thy  storms  : 
Thy  tutorage  was  well  confest 
Against  the  Frank  in  arms  — 

The  Frank  who  basely,  proudly  came 
To  rend  us  from  our  home, 

With  flashing  steel  and  wasting 
flame. — 

How  could  he,  dare  he  come  ? 


GREECE. 


S57 


THE  EXPEDITION  OF  NADIR 
SHAH  INTO  HINDOSTAN. 

“ Quoi ! vous  allez  combattre  un  roi,  dont  la 
puissance 

Semble  forcer  le  ciel  de  prendre  sa  defense, 
Sous  qui  toute  l’Asie  a vu  tombre  ses  rois 
Et  qui  tient  la  fortune  attach6e  & ses  lois ! ” 
— Racine’s  Alexandre. 
“ Squallent  populatibus  agri.” 

— Claudian. 

As  the  host  of  the  locusts  in  numbers, 
in  might 

As  the  flames  of  the  forest  that  redden 
the  night, 

They  approach  : but  the  eye  may  not 
dwell  on  the  glare 

Of  standard  and  sabre  that  sparkle  in 
air. 

Like  the  fiends  of  destruction  they 
rush  on  their  way, 

The  vulture  behind  them  is  wild  for 
his  prey ; 

And  the  spirits  of  death,  and  the 
demons  of  wrath, 

Wave  the  gloom  of  their  wings  o’er 
their  desolate  path. 

Earth  trembles  beneath  them,  the 
dauntless,  the  bold ; 

Oh ! weep  for  thy  children,  thou  re- 
gion of  gold ; 1 

For  thy  thousands  are  bow’d  to  the 
dust  of  the  plain, 

And  all  Delhi  runs  red  with  the 
blood  of  her  slain. 

For  thy  glory  is  past,  and  thy  splen- 
dor is  dim, 

And  the  cup  of  thy  sorrow  is  full  to 
the  brim  ; 

And  where  is  the  chief  in  thy  realms 
to  abide, 

The  “Monarch  of  Nations,”2  the 
strength  of  his  pride  1 

1 This  invader  required  as  a ransom  for 
Mohammed  Shah  no  less  than  thirty  millions, 
and  amassed  in  the  rich  city  of  Delhi  the 
enormous  sum  of  two  hundred  and  thirty- 
one  millions  sterling.  Others,  however,  dif- 
fer considerably  in^  their  account  of  this 
treasure. 

2 Such  pompous  epithets  the  Oriental 


Like  a thousand  dark  streams  from 
the  mountain  they  throng, 

With  the  fife  and  the  horn  and  the 
war-beating  gong : 

The  land  like  an  Eden  before  them 
is  fair, 

But  behind  them  a wilderness  dreary 
and  bare.1 

The  shrieks  of  the  orphan,  the  lone 
widow’s  wail, 

The  groans  of  the  childless,  are  loud 
on  the  gale ; 

For  the  star  of  thy  glory  is  blasted 
and  wan, 

And  wither’d  the  flower  of  thy  fame, 
Hindostan ! 


GREECE. 

“Exoritur  clamorque  virum,  clangorque 
tubarum.”  — Virgil. 

What  wakes  the  brave  of  yon  isle- 
throng’d  wave  ? 

And  why  does  the  trumpet  bray  1 
And  the  tyrant  groan  on  his  gory 
throne, 

In  fear  and  wild  dismay  1 

Why,  he  sees  the  hosts  around  his 
coasts 

Of  those  who  will  be  free  ; 

And  he  views  the  bands  of  trampled 
lands 

In  a dreadful  league  agree. 

“ Revenge  ! ” they  call,  “ for  one,  for 
all- 

in  the  page  of  song  and  story 

writers  are  accustomed  to  bestow  on  their 
monarchs ; of  which  sufficient  specimens  may 
be  seen  in  Sir  William  Jones’s  translation  of 
the  “ History  of  Nadir  Shah.”  We  can 
scarcely  read  one  page  of  this  work  without 
meeting  with  such  sentences  as  these : “ Le  roi 
des  rois;  ” “ Les  etendards  qui  subjuguentle 
monde ; ” “ L’ame  rayonnante  de  sa  majesty ; ” 
“ Le  rayonnant  monarque  du  monde;  ” “Sa 
majeste  conqu^rante  du  monde;  ” etc. 

1 “ The  land  is  as  the  Garden  of  Eden 
before  them,  and  behind  them  a desolate 
wilderness.”  — Joel. 


S58 


THE  MAID  OF  SAVOY. 


Be  their  name  erased,  and  ours  re- 
placed 

In  all  its  pristine  glory  ! 

“ Too  long  in  pain  has  Slavery’s  chain 

Our  listless  limbs  encumber’d  ; 

Too  long  beneath  her  freezing  breath 

Our  torpid  souls  have  slumber’d. 

“ But  now  we  rise  — the  great,  the 
wise 

Of  ages  past  inspire  us  ! 

Oh  ! what  could  inflame  our  love  of 
fame, 

If  that  should  fail  to  fire  us  ? 

“ Let  Cecrops’  town  of  old  renown 

Her  bands  and  chieftains  muster  ; 

With  joy  unsheathe  the  blade  of 
death, 

And  crush  the  foes  who  crush’d'her ! 

“We  come,  we  come,  with  trump  and 
drum, 

To  smite  the  hand  that  smote  us, 

And  spread  the  blaze  of  freedom’s 
rays 

From  Athens  to  Eurotas  ! ” 


THE  MAID  OF  SAVOY. 

Down  Savoy’s  hills  of  stainless  white 
A thousand  currents  run, 

And  sparkle  bright  in  the  early  light 
Of  the  slowly-rising  sun  : 

But  brighter  far, 

Like  the  glance  of  a star 
From  regions  above, 

Is  the  look  of  love 

In  the  eye  of  the  Maid  of 
Savoy ! 

Down  Savoy’s  hills  of  lucid  snow 
A thousand  roebucks  leap, 

And  headlong  they  go  when  the 
bugles  blow, 

And  sound  from  steep  to  steep  : 

Blit  lighter  far, 

Like  the  motion  of  air 
On  the  smooth  river’s  bed, 


Is  the  noiseless  tread 
Of  the  foot  of  the  Maid  of 
Savoy  ! 

In  Savoy’s  vales,  with  green  array’d, 
A thousand  blossoms  flower, 

’Neath  the  odorous  shade  by  the 
larches  made, 

In  their  own  ambrosial  bower  : 

But  sweeter  still, 

Like  the  cedars  which  rise 
On  Lebanon’s  hill 
To  the  pure  blue  skies, 

Is  the  breath  of  the  Maid  of 
Savoy ! 

In  Savoy’s  groves  full  merrily  sing 
A thousand  songsters  gay, 

When  the  breath  of  spring  calls  them 
forth  on  the  wing, 

To  sport  in  the  sun’s  mild  ray  : 

But  softer  far, 

Like  the  holy  song 
Of  angels  in  air, 

When  they  sweep  along, 

Is  the  voice  of  the  Maid  of 
Savoy  ! 


IGNORANCE  OF  MODERN 
EGYPT. 

Day’s  genial  beams  expand  the  flowers 
That  bloom  in  Damietta’s  bowers  ; 
Beneath  the  night’s  descending  dew 
They  close  those  leaves  of  finest  hue  : 
So  Science  droops  in  Egypt’s  land, 
Beneath  the  Turkish  despot’s  hand  ; 
The  damps  of  Ignorance  and  Pride 
Close  up  its  leaves,  its  beauties  hide : 
The  morrow’s  rays  her  flowers  may 
woo  — 

Is  there  no  ray  for  Science  too  1 


MIDNIGHT. 

’Tis  midnight  o’er  the  dim  mere’s 
lonely  bosom, 

Dark,  dusky,  windy  midnight : swift 
are  driven 


“IN  SUMMER,  WHEN  ALL  NATURE  GLOWS » 


859 


The  swelling  vapors  onward : every 
blossom 

Bathes  its  bright  petals  in  the  tears 
of  heaven. 

Imperfect,  half-seen  objects  meet  the 
sight, 

The  other  half  our  fancy  must 
portray ; 

A wan,  dull,  lengthen’d  sheet  of 
swimming  light 

Lies  the  broad  lake  : the  moon  con- 
ceals her  ray, 

Sketch’d  faintly  by  a pale  and  lurid 
gleam 

Shot  thro’  the  glimmering  clouds  : 
the  lovely  planet 

Is  shrouded  in  obscurity  ; the  scream 

Of  owl  is  silenced ; and  the  rocks  of 
granite 

Rise  tall  and  drearily,  while  damp 
and  dank 

Hang  the  thick  willows  on  the  reedy 
bank. 

Beneath,  the  gurgling  eddies  slowly 
creep, 

Blacken’d  by  foliage ; and  the  glut- 
ting wave, 

That  saps  eternally  the  cold  gray 
steep, 

Sounds  heavily  within  the  hollow 
cave. 

All  earth  is  restless  — from  his  glossy 
wing 1 

The  heath-fowl  lifts  his  head  at 
intervals  ; 

Wet,  driving,  rainy,  come  the  burst- 
ing squalls  ; 

All  nature  wears  her  dun  dead  cover- 
ing. 

Tempest  is  gather’d,  and  the  brooding 
storm 

Spreads  its  black  mantle  o’er  the 
mountain’s  form  ; 

And,  mingled  with  the  rising  roar,  is 
swelling, 

From  the  far  hunter’s  booth,  the 
blood-hound’s  yelling, 

The  water-falls  in  various  cadence 
chiming, 

1 The  succeeding  lines  are  a paraphrase  of 

Ossian. 


Or  in  one  loud  unbroken  sheet 
descending, 

Salute  each  other  thro’  the  night’s 
dark  womb  ; 

The  moaning  pine-trees  to  the  wild 
blast  bending, 

Are  pictured  faintly  thro’  the 
chequer’d  gloom  ; 

The  forests,  half-way  up  the  mountain 
climbing, 

Resound  with  crash  of  falling  bran- 
ches ; quiver 

Their  aged  mossy  trunks  : the 
startled  doe 

Leaps  from  her  leafy  lair  : the 
swelling  river 

Winds  his  broad  stream  majestic, 
deep,  and  slow. 


“IN  SUMMER,  WHEN  ALL 
NATURE  GLOWS.” 

“ Nature  iu  every  form  inspires  delight.” 
— Cowper. 

In  summer,  when  all  nature  glows, 
And  lends  its  fragrance  to  the  rose, 
And  tints  the  sky  with  deeper  blue. 
And  copious  sheds  the  fruitful  dew ; 
When  odors  come  with  every  gale. 
And  nature  holds  her  carnival ; 

When  all  is  bright  and  pure  and  calm, 
The  smallest  herb  or  leaf  can  charm 
The  man  whom  nature’s  beauties  warm. 

The  glitt’ring  tribes  of  insects  gay, 
Disporting  in  their  parent-ray, 

Each  full  of  life  and  careless  joy, 

He  views  with  philosophic  eye  : 

For  well  he  knows  the  glorious  Hand, 
That  bade  th’  eternal  mountains  stand, 
And  spread  the  vast  and  hea  ving  main, 
And  studded  heaven’s  resplendent 
plain, 

Gave  life  to  nature’s  humbler  train. 

Nor  less  admires  his  mighty  pow’r 
In  the  fine  organs  of  a flow’r, 

Than  when  he  bids  the  thunder  roll, 
Rebellowing  o’er  the  stormy  pole  ; 

Or  launches  forth  his  bolts  of  fire 


860  “BORNE  ON  LIGHT  WINGS  OF  BUOYANT  DOWNS 


On  the  lost  objects  of  his  ire  ; 

Or  with  the  yawning  earthquake  shocks 
The  reeling  hills  and  shatter’d  rocks, 
And  every  mortal  project  mocks. 

No  skeptic  he  — who  bold  essays 
T’  unravel  all  the  mystic  maze 
Of  the  Creator’s  mighty  plan  — 

A task  beyond  the  pow’rs  of  man  ; 
Who,  when  his  reason  fails  to  soar 
High  as  his  will,  believes  no  more  — 
No!  — calmly  thro’  the  world  he  steals, 
Nor  seeks  to  trace  what  God  conceals, 
Content  with  what  that  God  reveals. 


SCOTCH  SONG. 

There  are  tears  o’  pity,  an’  tears  o’ 
wae, 

An’  tears  for  excess  o’  joy  will  fa’, 

Yet  the  tears  o’  luve  are  sweeter  than  a ’ ! 

There  are  sighs  o’  pity,  an’  sighs  o’ 
wae, 

An’  sighs  o’  regret  frae  the  saul  will 
gae; 

Yet  the  sighs  o’  luve  are  sweeter  than  a’ ! 

There’s  the  look  o’  pity,  the  look  o’ 
wae, 

The  look  o’  frien’,  an’  the  look  o’  fae  ; 

Yet  the  loolc  o’  luve  is  sweeter  than  a’ ! 

There’s  the  smile  o’  friends  when  they 
come  frae  far, 

There’s  the  smile  o’  joy  in  the  festive 
ha’ ; 

Yet  the  smile  o’  luve  is  sweeter  than  a ’ ! 


“ BORNE  ON  LIGHT  WINGS  OF 
BUOYANT  DOWN.” 

“ Nunc  mihi,  nunc  alii  benigna.” 

— Horace  . 

Borne  on  light  wings  of  buoyant  down, 
Mounts  the  hoar  thistle-beard  aloft ; 
An  air  scarce  felt  can  bear  it  on, 

A touch  propel,  tho’  e’er  so  soft : 
Dislodged  from  yonder  thistle’s  head, 
Upon  the  passing  gale  it  fled. 


See  ! to  each  object  on  its  way 
A faithless  moment  it  adheres ; 

But  if  one  breeze  upon  it  play, 

Breaks  its  slight  bonds  and  dis- 
appears : 

Its  silken  sail  each  zephyr  catches, 

A breath  its  airy  hold  detaches. 

The  man  who  wins  thy  love  awhile, 
Should  never  dream  it  will  remain  ; 
For  one  fond  word,  one  courteous 
smile, 

Will  set  thy  heart  afloat  again. 

But  he  whose  eye  the  light  can  chase, 
That  sports  above  the  trembling  vase, 

Attend  its  roving  sheen,  pursue 

Its  rapid  movements  here  and  there, 
And  with  a firm  unwavering  view 
Arrest  the  fleeting  phantom  fair, 
May  fix  inconstancy  — ensure 
Thy  love,  thy  fickle  faith  secure ! 

How  many  have  — for  many  ask  — 
The  kiss  I fondly  deem’d  my  own  ! 
And  hundreds  in  succession  bask 
In  eye-beams  due  to  me  alone : 

Tho’  all,  like  me,  in  turn  must  prove 
The  wandering  nature  of  thy  love. 

Thou  saw’st  the  glow-worm  on  our 
way, 

Last  eve,  with  mellow  lustre  shine — 
Clad  in  pellucid  flame  she  lay, 

Andglimmer’dinher  amber  shrine — 
Would  that  those  eyes  of  heavenly 
blue 

Were  half  as  faithful  and  as  true  ! 

And  lo!  the  blush,  quick  mantling, 
breaks 

In  rich  suffusion  o’er  thy  cheek ; 

In  sudden  vermeil  Conscience  speaks, 
No  further,  fuller  proof  I seek : 

The  rosy  herald  there  was  sent, 

To  bid  thee  own  it  and  repent. 


SONG. 

It  is  the  solemn  even-time, 

And  the  holy  organ’s  pealing : 


FRIENDSHIP. 


861 


And  the  vesper  chime,  oh ! the  vesper 
chime  ! 

O’er  the  clear  blue  wave  is  stealing. 

It  is  the  solemn  mingled  swell 

Of  the  monks  in  chorus  singing  : 

And  the  vesper  bell,  oh ! the  vesper 
bell! 

To  the  gale  is  its  soft  note  flinging. 

’Tis  the  sound  of  the  voices  sweeping 
along, 

Like  the  wind  thro’  a grove  of 
larches : 

And  the  vesper  song,  oh ! the  vesper 
song  ! 

Echoes  sad  thro’  the  cloister’d 
arches. 


“ THE  STARS  OF  YON  BLUE 
PLACID  SKY.” 

“ . . . supereminet  omrfes.”  — Virgil. 
The  stars  of  yon  blue  placid  sky 
In  vivid  thousands  burn, 

And  beaming  from  their  orbs  on  high, 
On  radiant  axes  turn  : 

The  eye  with  wonder  gazes  there, 

And  could  but  gaze  on  sight  so  fair. 

But  should  a comet,  brighter  still, 

His  blazing  train  unfold 
Among  the  many  lights  that  fill 
The  sapphirine  with  gold; 

More. wonder  then  would  one  bestow 
Than  millions  of  a meaner  glow. 

E’en  so,  sweet  maid ! thy  beauties 
shine 

With  light  so  peerless  and  divine, 
That  others,  who  have  charm’d  before, 
When  match’d  with  thee,  attract  no 
more. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

“ Neque  ego  nunc  de  vulgari  aut  de  medio- 
cri,  quae  taraen  ipsa  et  delectat  et  prodest, 
sed  de  vera  et  perfecta  loquor  [amicitia] 
qualis  eoruni,  qui  pauci  nominantur,  fuit.” 
— Cicero. 


0 thou  most  holy  Friendship  ! where- 
so’er 

Thy  dwelling  be  — for  in  the  courts 
of  man 

But  seldom  thine  all-lieavenly  voice 
we  hear, 

Sweet’ning  the  moments  of  our  nar- 
row span  ; 

And  seldom  thy  bright  footsteps  do 
we  scan 

Along  the  weary  waste  of  life  unblest, 

For  faithless  is  its  frail  and  way- 
ward plan, 

And  perfidy  is  man’s  eternal  guest, 

With  dark  suspicion  link’d  and  shame- 
less interest ! 

’Tis  thine,  when  life  has  reach’d  its 
final  goal, 

Ere  the  last  sigh  that  frees  the  mind 
be  giv’n, 

To  speak  sweet  solace  to  the  parting 
soul, 

And  pave  the  bitter  path  that  leads 
to  heav’n : 

’Tis  thine,  whene’er  the  heart  is 
rack’d  and  riv’n 

By  the  hot  shafts  of  baleful  calumny, 

When  the  dark  spirit  to  despair  is 
d riv’n, 

To  teach  its  lonely  grief  to  lean  on 
thee, 

And  pour  within  thine  ear  the  tale  of 
misery. 

But  where  art  thou,  thou  comet  of  an 
age, 

Thou  phoenix  of  a century  ? Per- 
chance 

Thou  art  but  of  those  fables  which 
engage 

And  hold  the  minds  of  men  in  giddy 
trance. 

Yet,  be  it  so,  and  be  it  all  romance, 

The  thought  of  thine  existence  is  so 
bright 

With  beautiful  imaginings  — the 
glance 

Upon  thy  fancied  being  such  delight, 

That  I will  deem  thee  Truth,  so  lovely 
is  thy  might ! 


862  “AND  ASK  YE  WHY  THESE  SAD  TEATS  STREAM?” 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MY  GRAND- 
MOTHER. 

“ Cui  pudor  et  justitise  soror 
Incorrupta  tides  nudaque  veritas, 
Quando  ullum  invenient  parem  ? ” 

— Horace. 

There  on  her  bier  she  sleeps  ! 

E’en  yet  her  face  its  native  sweetness 
keeps. 

Ye  need  not  mourn  above  that  faded 
form, 

Her  soul  defies  the  ravage  of  the 
worm ; 

Her  better  half  has  sought  its  heav- 
enly rest, 

Unstain’d,  unharm’d,  unfetter’d,  un- 
opprest ; 

And  far  above  all  worldly  pain  and 
woe, 

She  sees  that  God  she  almost  saw  be- 
low. 

She  trod  the  path  of  virtue  from  her 
birth, 

And  finds  in  Heaven  what  she  sought 
on  earth  ; 

She  wins  the  smile  of  her  eternal  King, 

And  sings  his  praise  where  kindred 
angels  sing. 

Her  holy  patience,  her  unshaken  faith, 

How  well  they  smooth’d  the  rugged 
path  of  Death ! 

She  met  his  dread  approach  without 
alarm, 

For  Heaven  in  prospect  makes  the 
spirit  calm. 

In  steadfast  trust  and  Christian  virtue 
strong, 

Hope  on  her  brow,  and  Jesus  on  her 
tongue  ; 

Her  faith,  like  Stephen’s,  soften’d  her 
distress  — 

Scarce  less  her  anguish,  scarce  her 
patience  less ! 

“AND  ASK  YE  WHY  THESE 
SAD  TEARS  STREAM  ? ” 

“ Te  sorania  nostra  reducunt.” — Ovid. 

And  ask  ye  why  these  sad  tears 
stream  i 


Why  these  wan  eyes  are  dim  with 
weeping  'i 

I had  a dream  — a lovely  dream, 

Of  her  that  in  the  grave  is  sleeping. 

I saw  her  as  ’twas  yesterday, 

The  bloom  upon  her  cheek  still 
glowing ; 

And  round  her  play’d  a golden  ray, 
And  on  her  brows  were  gay  flowers 
blowing. 

With  angel-hand  she  swept  a lyre, 

A garland  red  with  roses  bound  it ; 
Its  strings  were  wreath’d  with  lambent 
fire, 

And  amaranth  was  woven  round  it. 

I saw  her  mid  the  realms  of  light, 

In  everlasting  radiance  gleaming ; 
Co-equal  with  the  seraphs  bright, 

Mid  thousand  thousand  angels 
beaming. 

I strove  to  reach  her,  when,  behold, 
Those  fairy  forms  of  bliss  Elysian, 
And  all  that  rich  scene  wrapt  in  gold 
Faded  in  air  — a lovely  vision! 

And  I awoke,  but  oh  ! to  me 

That  waking  hour  was  doubly 
weary  ; 

And  yet  I could  not  envy  thee, 

Although  so  blest,  and  I so  dreary. 


ON  SUBLIMITY. 

“ The  sublime  always  dwells  on  great 

objects  aud  terrible.”  — Burke. 

0 tell  me  not  of  vales  in  tenderest 
green, 

The  poplar’s  shade,  the  plantain’s 
graceful  tree ; 

Give  me  the  wild  cascade,  the  rugged 
scene, 

The  loud  surge  bursting  o’er  the 
purple  sea : 

On  such  sad  views  my  soul  delights  to 
pore, 

By  Teneriffe’s  peak,  or  Kilda’s  giant 
height, 

Or  dark  Loffoden’s  melancholy  shore, 


ON  SUBLIMITY. 


863 


What  time  gray  eve  is  fading  into 
night ; 

When  by  that  twilight  beam  I scarce 
descry 

The  mingled  shades  of  earth  and  sea 
and  sky. 

Give  me  to  wander  at  midnight  alone, 

Through  some  august  cathedral, 
where,  from  high, 

The  cold,  clear  moon  on  the  mosaic 
stone 

Comes  glancing  in  gay  colors  glori- 
ously, 

Through  windows  rich  with  gorgeous 
blazonry, 

Gilding  the  niches  dim,  where,  side 
by  side, 

Stand  antique  mitred  prelates,  whose 
bones  lie 

Beneath  the  pavement,  where  their 
deeds  of  pride 

Were  graven,  but  long  since  are  worn 
away 

By  constant  feet  of  ages  day  by  day. 

Then,  as  Imagination  aids,  I hear 

Wild  heavenly  voices  sounding  from 
the  choir, 

And  more  than  mortal  music  meets 
mine  ear, 

Whose  long,  long  notes  among  the 
tombs  expire, 

With  solemn  rustling  of  cherubic 
wings, 

Round  those  vast  columns  which 
the  roof  upbear ; 

While  sad  and  undistinguishable 
things 

Do  flit  athwart  the  moonlit  windows 
there ; 

And  my  blood  curdles  at  the  chilling 
sound 

Of  lone,  unearthly  steps,  that  pace 
the  hallow’d  ground ! 

I love  the  starry  spangled  heav’n,  re- 
sembling 

A canopy  with  fiery  gems  o’erspread, 

When  the  wide  loch  with  silvery 
sheen  is  trembling, 

Far  stretch’d  beneath  the  moun- 
tain’s hoary  head. 


But  most  I love  that  sky,  when,  dark 
with  storms, 

It  frowns  terrific  o’er  this  wilder’d 
earth, 

While  the  black  clouds,  in  strange 
and  uncouth  forms, 

Come  hurrying  onward  in  their 
ruinous  wrath  ; 

And  shrouding  in  their  deep  and 
gloomy  robe 

The  burning  eyes  of  heav’n  and 
Dian’s  lucid  globe ! 

I love  your  voice,  ye  echoing  winds, 
that  sweep 

Thro’  the  wide  womb  of  midnight, 
when  the  veil 

Of  darkness  rests  upon  the  mighty 
deep, 

The  laboring  vessel,  and  the  shat- 
ter’d sail  — 

Save  when  the  forked  bolts  of  light- 
ning leap 

On  flashing  pinions,  and  the  mari- 
ner pale 

Raises  his  eyes  to  heav’n.  Oh ! who 
would  sleep 

What  time  the  rushing  of  the  angry 
gale 

Is  loud  upon  the  waters  ? — Hail,  all 
hail ! 

Tempest  and  clouds  and  night  and 
thunder’s  rending  peal ! 

All  hail,  Sublimity ! thou  lofty  one, 

For  thou  dost  walk  upon  the  blast, 
and  gird 

Thy  majesty  with  terrors,  and  thy 
throne 

Is  on  the  whirlwind,  and  thy  voice 
is  heard 

In  thunders  and  in  shakings : thy  de- 
light 

Is  in  the  secret  wood,  the  blasted 
heath, 

The  ruin’d  fortress,  and  the  dizzy 
height, 

The  grave,  the  ghastly  charnel- 
house  of  death, 

In  vaults,  in  cloisters,  and  in  gloomy 
piles, 

Long  corridors  and  towers  and  soli- 
tary aisles ! 


864 


ON  SUBLIMITY. 


Thy  joy  is  in  obscurity,  and  plain 

Is  naught  with  thee ; and  on  thy 
steps  attend 

Shadows  but  half  distinguish’d ; the 
thin  train 

Of  hovering  spirits  round  thy  path- 
way bend, 

With  their  low  tremulous  voice  and 
airy  tread,1 

What  time  the  tomb  above  them 
yawns  and  gapes : 

For  thou  dost  hold  communion  with 
the  dead 

Phantoms  and  phantasies  and  grisly 
shapes ; 

And  shades  and  headless  spectres  of 
St.  Mark,2 

Seen  by  a lurid  light,  formless  and 
still  and  dark ! 

What  joy  to  view  the  varied  rainbow 
smile 

On  Niagara’s  flood  of  matchless 
might, 

Where  all  around  the  melancholy  isle  3 

The  billows  sparkle  with  their  hues 
of  light ! 

While,  as  the  restless  surges  roar  and 
rave, 

The  arrowy  stream  descends  with 
awful  sound, 

Wheeling  and  whirling  with  each 
breathless  wave.4 

Immense,  sublime,  magnificent,  pro- 
found ! 

If  thou  hast  seen  all  this,  and  could’st 
not  feel, 

Then  know,  thine  heart  is  framed  of 
marble  or  of  steel. 


1 According  to  Burke,  a low,  tremulous, 
intermitted  sound  is  conducive  to  the  sublime. 

2 It  is  a received  opinion,  that  or*  St.  Mark’s 
Eve  all  the  persons  who  are  to  die  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  make  their  appearances  without 
their  heads  in  the  churches  of  their  respec- 
tive parishes.  See  Dr.  Langhorne’s  Notes  to 
Collins. 

3 This  island,  on  both  sides  of  which  the 
waters  rush  with  astonishing  swiftness,  is  * 
900  or  800  feet  long,  and  its  lower  edge  is  just 
at  the  perpendicular  edge  of  the  fall. 

4“Undis  Phlegethon' perlustrat  anhelis 

— Claudian. 


The  hurricane  fair  earth  to  darkness 
changing, 

Kentucky’s  chambers  of  eternal 
gloom,1 

The  swift-paced  columns  of  the  desert 
ranging 

Th’  uneven  waste,  the  violent  Si- 
moom, 

Thy  snow-clad  peaks,  stupendous  Gun- 
gotree  ! 

Whence  springs  the  hallow’d  Jum- 
na’s echoing  tide. 

Hoar  Cotopaxi’s  cloud-capt  majesty, 

Enormous  Chimborazo’s  naked 
pride, 

The  dizzy  cape  of  winds  that  cleaves 
the  sky,2 

Whence  we  look  down  into  eternity, 

The  pillar’d  cave  of  Morven’s  giant 
king,3 

The  Yanar,4  and  the  Geyser’s  boil- 
ing fountain, 

The  deep  volcano’s  inward  murmur- 
ing, 

The  shadowy  Colossus  of  the  moun- 
tain ; 5 

Antiparos,  where  sunbeams  never  en- 
ter; 

Loud  Stromboli,  amid  the  quaking 
isles ; 

The  terrible  Maelstrom,  around  his 
centre 

Wheeling  his  circuit  of  unnumber’d 
miles : 

1 See  Dr.  Nahum  Ward’s  account  of  the 
great  Kentucky  cavern,  in  the  Monthly 
Magazine,  October,  1816. 

2 In  the  Ukraine. 

3Fingal’s  Cave  in  the  Island  of  Staffa.  If 
the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  bestrid  a harbor,  Fin- 
gal’s  powers  were  certainly  far  from  despic- 
able: 

Achos  air  Cromleach  druim-ard 
Chos  eile  air  Cromraeal  dubh 
Thoga  Fion  le  lamh  mhoir 
An  d’uisge  o Lubhair  na  fruth. 

With  one  foot  on  Cromleach  his  brow, 
The  other  on  Crommeal  the  dark, 

Fion  took  up  with  his  large  hand 
The  water  from  Lubhair  of  streams. 

See  the  Dissertations  prefixed  to  Ossian’s 
Poems. 

4  Or  perpetual  fire. 

6 Alias,  the  Spectre  of  the  Broken. 


THE  DEITY. 


865 


These,  these  are  sights  and  sounds  that 
freeze  the  blood, 

Yet  charm  the  awe-struck  soul  which 
doats  on  solitude. 

Blest  be  the  bard,  whose  willing  feet 
rejoice 

To  tread  the  emerald  green  of  Fan- 
cy’s vales, 

Who  hears  the  music  of  her  heav- 
enly voice, 

And  breathes  the  rapture  of  her 
nectar’d  gales  ! 

Blest  be  the  bard,  whom  golden  Fancy 
loves, 

He  strays  forever  thro’  her  bloom- 
ing bowers, 

Amid  the  rich  profusion  of  her  groves, 

And  wreathes  his  forehead  with  her 
spicy  flowers 

Of  sunny  radiance ; but  how  blest  is  he 

Who  feels  the  genuine  force  of  high 
Sublimity ! 


THE  DEITY. 

“ Immutable  — immortal  — infinite ! ” 

— Milton. 

Where  is  the  wonderful  abode, 

The  holy,  secret,  searchless  shrine, 
Where  dwells  the  immaterial  God, 
The  all-pervading  and  benign  'i 

Oh  that  he  were  reveal’d  to  me, 

Fully  and  palpably  display’d 
In  all  the  awful  majesty 

Of  Heaven’s  consummate  pomp  ar- 
ray’d — 

How  would  the  overwhelming  light 
Of  his  tremendous  presence  beam  ! 
And  how  insufferably  bright 

Would  the  broad  glotv  of  glory 
stream  ! 

What  tho’  this  flesh  would  fade  like 
grass, 

Before  th’  intensity  of  day  ? 

One  glance  at  Him  who  always  was, 
The  fiercest  pangs  would  well  repay. 


When  Moses  on  the  mountain’s  brow 
Had  met  th’  Eternal  face  to  face, 

While  anxious  Israel  stood  below, 
Wond’ring  and  trembling  at  its 
base ; 

His  visage,  as  he  downward  trod, 
Shone  starlike  on  the  shrinking 
crowd, 

With  lustre  borrow’d  from  his  God  : 
They  could  not  brook  it,  and  they 
bow’d. 

The  mere  reflection  of  the  blaze 
That  lighten’d  round  creation’s 
Lord, 

Was  too  puissant  for  their  gaze  ; 

And  he  that  caught  it  was  adored. 

Then  how  ineffably  august, 

How  passing  wond’rous  must  He 
be, 

Whose  presence  lent  to  earthly  dust 
Such  permanence  of  brilliancy ! 

Throned  in  sequester’d  sanctity, 

And  with  transcendent  glories 
crown’d ; 

With  all  His  works  beneath  His  eye, 
And  suns  and  systems  burning 
round,  — 

How  shall  I hymn  Him  ? How  aspire 
His  holy  Name  with  song  to  blend, 

And  bid  my  rash  and  feeble  lyre 
To  such  an  awless  flight  ascend  ? 


THE  BEIGN  OF  LOVE. 

“ In  freta  dum  fluvii  current,”  etc. 

— Vikgil. 

While  roses  boast  a purple  dye, 
While  seas  obey  the  blast, 

Or  glowing  rainbows  span  the  sky  — 
The  reign  of  love  shall  last. 

' While  man  exults  o’er  present  joy, 
Or  mourns  o’er  joy  that’s  past, 
Feels  virtue  soothe,  or  vice  alloy  — - 
The  reign  of  love  shall  last. 


866 


TIME:  AN  ODE. 


While  female  charms  attract  the 
mind, 

In  moulds  of  beauty  cast ; 

While  man  is  warm,  or  woman  kind  — 
The  reign  of  love  shall  last. 


“ ’TIS  THE  VOICE  OF  THE 
DEAD.” 

“ Non  omnis  moriar.”  — Horace. 

’Tis  the  voice  of  the  dead 

From  the  depth  of  their  glooms  : 
Hark  ! they  call  me  away 
To  the  world  of  the  tombs  ! 

I come,  lo  ! I come 
To  your  lonely  abodes, 

For  my  dust  is  the  earth’s 
But  this  soul  is  my  God’s  ! 

Thine  is  not  the  triumph, 

O invincible  Death ! 

Thou  hast  not  prevail’d, 

Tho’  I yield  thee  my  breath  ; 
Thy  sceptre  shall  wave 
O’er  a fragment  of  clay, 

But  my  spirit,  thou  tyrant, 

Is  bounding  away ! 

I fear  not,  I feel  not 
The  pang  that  destroys, 

In  the  bliss  of  that  thought  — 

That  the  blest  shall  rejoice  : 

For  why  should  I shrink  ? 

One  moment  shall  sever 
My  soul  from  its  chain, 

Then  it  liveth  forever  ! 

Then  weep  not  for  me, 

Tho’  I sink,  I shall  rise ; 

I shall  live,  tho’  I sleep  — 

’Tis  the  guilty  who  dies. 

E’en  now  in  mine  ear 
’Tis  a seraph  wrho  sings : 
Farewell ! — for  I go 

On  the  speed  of  his  wings ! 


TIME  : AN  ODE. 

I see  the  chariot,  where, 
Throughout  the  purple  air, 


The  foreloek’d  monarch  rides  : 

Arm’d  like  some  antique  vehicle  for 
war, 

Time,  hoary  Time  ! I see  thy  scythed 
car, 

In  voiceless  majesty, 

Cleaving  the  clouds  of  ages  that  float 

by, 

And  change  their  many-color’d 
sides, 

Now  dark,  now  dun,  now  richly 
bright, 

In  an  ever-varying  light. 

The  great,  the  lowly,  and  the  brave 
Bow  down  before  the  rushing 
force 

Of  thine  unconquerable  course  ; 

Thy  wheels  are  noiseless  as  the 
grave, 

Yet  fleet  as  Heaven’s  red  bolt  they 
hurry  on, 

They  pass  above  us,  and  are  gone ! 

Clear  is  the  track  which  thou  hast 
past ; 

Strew’d  with  the  wrecks  of  frail 
renown, 

Robe,  sceptre,  banner,  wreath,  and 
crown, 

The  pathway  that  before  thee 
lies, 

An  undistinguishable  waste, 

Invisible  to  human  eyes, 

Which  fain  would  scan  the  various 
shapes  which  glide 

In  dusky  cavalcade, 

Imperfectly  descried, 

Through  that  intense,  impene- 
trable shade. 

Four  gray  steeds  thy  chariot  draw  ; 

In  th’  obdurate,  tameless  jaw 

Their  rusted  iron  bits  they  sternly 
champ ; 

Ye  may  not  hear  the  echoing  tramp 

Of  their  light-bounding,  windy 
feet, 

Upon  that  cloudy  pavement  beat. 

Four  wings  have  each,  which,  far  out- 
spread, 

Receive  the  many  blasts  of  heav’n, 

As  with  unwearied  speed, 


GOD'S  DENUNCIATIONS  AGAINST  PHARAOH-HOPHRA.  867 


Throughout  the  long  extent  of  ether 
driv’n, 

Onward  they  rush  forever  and  for 
aye: 

Thy  voice,  thou  mighty  Charioteer! 

Always  sounding  in  their  ear, 
Throughout  the  gloom  of  night  and 
heat  of  day. 

Fast  behind  thee  follows  Death, 

Thro’  the  ranks  of  wan  and  weeping, 
That  yield  their  miserable  breath, 

On  with  his  pallid  courser  proudly 
sweeping. 

Arm’d  is  he  in  full  mail 1 

Bright  breastplate  and  high  crest, 
Nor  is  the  trenchant  falchion 
wanting  : 

So  fiercely  does  he  ride  the  gale, 

On  Time’s  dark  car,  before  him, 
rest 

The  dew-drops  of  the  charger’s 
panting, 

On,  on  they  go  along  the  boundless 
skies, 

All  human  grandeur  fades  away 
Before  their  flashing,  fiery,  hollow 
eyes ; 

Beneath  the  terrible  control 
Of  those  vast  armed  orbs,  which 
roll 

Oblivion  on  the  creatures  of  a day. 
Those  splendid  monuments  alone  he 
spares 

Which,  to  her  deathless  votaries, 
Bright  Fame,  with  glowing  hand,  up- 
rears 

Amid  the  waste  of  countless  years. 

“ Live  ye ! ” to  these  he  crieth  ; “ live ! 
To  ye  eternity  I give  — 

Ye,  upon  whose  blessed  birth 

The  noblest  star  of  heaven  hath 
shone ; 

Live,  when  the  ponderous  pyramids  of 
earth 

Are  crumbling  in  oblivion  ! 

JI  am  indebted  for  the  idea  of  Death’s 
armor  to  that  famous  chorus  in  “ Caracta- 
cus  ” beginning  with  — 

“ Hark ! heard  ye  not  that  footstep  dread  ? ” 


Live,  when,  wrapt  in  sullen  shade, 
The  golden  hosts  of  heaven  shall 
fade ; 

Live,  when  yon  gorgeous  sun  on  high 
Shall  veil  the  sparkling  of  his  eye ! 
Live,  when  imperial  Time  and  Death 
himself  shall  die  ! ” 


GOD’S  DENUNCIATIONS 
AGAINST  PHARAOH- 
HOPHRA,  OR 
APRIES. 

Tiiou  beast  of  the  flood,  who  hast 
said  in  thy  soul, 

“ I have  made  me  a stream  that  for- 
ever shall  roll ! ” 1 

Thy  strength  is  the  flower  that  shall 
last  but  a day, 

And  thy  might  is  the  snow  in  the 
sun’s  burning  ray. 

Arm,  arm  from  the  east,  Babylonia’s 
son ! 

Arm,  arm,  for  the  battle  — the  Lord 
leads  thee  on  ! 

With  the  shield  of  thy  fame,  and  the 
power  of  thy  pride, 

Arm,  arm  in  thy  glory  — the  Lord  is 
thy  guide. 

Thou  shalt  come  like  a storm  when 
the  moonlight  is  dim, 

And  the  lake's  gloomy  bosom  is  full 
to  the  brim ; 

Thou  shalt  come  like  the  flash  in  the 
darkness  of  night, 

When  the  wolves  of  the  forest  shall 
howl  for  affright. 

1 “ Pliny’s  reproach  to  the  Egyptians,  for 
their  vain  and  foolish  pride  with  regard  to 
the  inundations  of  the  Nile,  points  out  one  of 
their  most  distinguishing  characteristics,  and 
recalls  to  my  mind  a fine  passage  of  Ezekiel, 
where  God  thus  speaks  to  Pharaoh,  one  of 
their  kings:  Behold,  I am  against  thee, 
Pharaoh  king  of  Egypt,  the  great  dragon 
that  lieth  in  the  midst  of  his  rivers,  that  hath 
said,  My  river  is  mine  own,  and  I have  made 
it  for  myself.”  — Kollin,  vol.  i.,  p.  216. 


868 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD . 


Woe,  woe  to  thee,  Tanis  ! 1 thy  babes 
shall  be  thrown 

By  the  barbarous  hands  on  the  cold 
marble-stone  : 

Woe,  woe  to  thee,  Nile ! for  thy 
stream  shall  be  red 

With  the  blood  that  shall  gush  o’er 
thy  billowy  bed ! 

Woe,  woe  to  thee,  Memphis!1  the 
war-cry  is  near, 

And  the  child  shall  be  toss’d  on  the 
murderer’s  spear ; 

For  fiercely  he  comes  in  the  day  of 
his  ire, 

With  wheels  like  a whirlwind,  and 
chariots  of  fire  ! 


“ ALL  JOYOUS  IN  THE  EEALMS 
OF  DAY.” 

“ Hominum  divomque  pater.”  — Virgil. 
All  joyous  in  the  realms  of  day, 
The  radiant  angels  sing, 

In  incorruptible  array, 

Before  the  Eternal  King  : 

Who,  hymn’d  by  archangelic  tongues, 
In  majesty  and  might, 

The  subject  of  ten  thousand  songs, 
Sits  veil’d  in  circling  light. 

Benignly  great,  serenely  dread, 

Amid  th’  immortal  choir, 

How  glory  plays  around  his  head 
In  rays  of  heavenly  fire  ! 

Before  the  blaze  of  Deity 
The  deathless  legions  bend, 

And  to  the  grand  co-equal  Three 
Their  choral  homage  lend. 

They  laud  that  God,  who  has  no 
peers, 

High  — holy  — searchless  — pure  ; 
Who  has  endured  for  countless  years, 
And  ever  will  endure  : 

Who  spoke,  and  fish,  fowl,  beast,  in 
pairs, 

1 The  Scriptural  appellations  are  “ Zoan  ” 
and  “ Noph.” 


Or  swam,  or  flew,  or  trod ; 

Space  glitter’d  with  unnumber’d 
stars, 

And  heaving  oceans  flow’d. 

Then  let  us  join  our  feeble  praise 
To  that  which  angels  give ; 

And  hymns  to  that  great  Parent 
raise, 

In  whom  we  breathe  and  lived 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

“ When  all  is  o’er,  it  is  humbling  to  tread 
O’er  the  weltering  field  of  the  tombless 
dead!”  — Byron. 

The  heat  and  the  chaos  of  contest  are 
o’er, 

To  mingle  no  longer — to  madden  no 
more  : 

And  the  cold  forms  of  heroes  are 
stretch’d  on  the  plain ; 

Those  lips  cannot  breathe  thro’  the 
trumpet  again ! 

For  the  globes  of  destruction  have 
shatter’d  their  might, 

The  swift  and  the  burning  — and 
wrapt  them  in  night : 

Like  lightning,  electric  and  sudden 
they  came ; 

They  took  but  their  life,  and  they  left 
them  their  fame ! 

I heard,  oh  ! I heard,  when,  with  bar- 
barous bray, 

They  leapt  from  the  mouth  of  the 
cannon  away ; 

And  the  loud-rushing  sound  of  their 
passage  in  air 

Seem’d  to  speak  in  a terrible  language 
— “ Beware  ! ” 

Farewell  to  ye,  chieftains ; to  one  and 
to  all, 

Who  this  day  have  perish’d  by  sabre 
or  ball ; 

Ye  cannot  awake  from  your  desolate 
sleep  — 

Unbroken  and  silent  and  dreamless 
and  deep ! 


THE  THUNDER-STORM. 


869 


THE  THUNDER-STORM. 

“ Non  imitabile  fulmen.”  — Virgil. 

The  storm  is  brooding  ! — I would  see 
it  pass, 

Observe  its  tenor,  and  its  progress 
trace. 

How  dark  and  dun  the  gathering 
clouds  appear, 

Their  rolling  thunders  seem  to  rend 
the  ear ! 

But  faint  at  first,  they  slowly,  sternly 
rise, 

From  mutt’rings  low  to  peals  which 
rock  the  skies, 

As  if  at  first  their  fury  they  forbore, 
And  nursed  their  terrors  for  a closing 
roar. 

And  hark ! they  rise  into  a loftier 
sound, 

Creation’s  trembling  objects  quake 
around ; 

In  silent  awe  the  subject-nations  hear 
TV  appalling  crash  of  elemental  war : 
The  lightning  too  each  eye  in  dim- 
ness shrouds, 

The  fiery  progeny  of  clashing  clouds, 
That  carries  death  upon  its  blazing 
wing, 

And  the  keen  tortures  of  th’  electric 
sting : 

Not  like  the  harmless  flash  on  sum- 
mer’s eve 

(When  no  rude  blasts  their  silent 
slumbers  leave), 

Which,  like  a radiant  vision  to  the  eye, 
Expands  serenely  in  the  placid  sky ; 
It  rushes  fleeter  than  the  swiftest  wind, 
And  bids  attendant  thunders  wait  be- 
hind : 

Quick  — forked  — livid,  thro’  the  air 
it  flies, 

A moment  blazes  — dazzles  — bursts 
— and  dies : 

Another,  and  another  yet,  and  still 
To  each  replies  its  own  allotted  peal. 
But  see,  at  last,  its  force  and  fury 
spent, 

The  tempest  slackens,  and  the  clouds 
are  rent : 

How  sweetly  opens  on  tlT  enchanted 
view 


The  deep-blue  sky,  more  fresh  and 
bright  in  hue  ! 

A finer  fragrance  breathes  in  every 
vale, 

A fuller  luxury  in  every  gale  ; 

My  ravish’d  senses  catch  the  rich  per- 
fume, 

And  Nature  smiles  in  renovated  bloom! 


THE  GRAVE  OF  A SUICIDE. 

Hark!  how  the  gale,  in  mournful 
notes  and  stern, 

Sighs  thro’  yon  grove  of  aged  oaks, 
that  wave 

(While  down  these  solitary  walks  I 
turn) 

Their  mingled  branches  o’er  yon 
lonely  grave  ! 

Poor  soul ! the  dawning  of  thy  life 
was  dim ; 

Frown’d  the  dark  clouds  upon  thy 
natal  .day ; 

Soon  rose  thy  cup  of  sorrow  to  the 
brim, 

And  hope  itself  but  shed  a doubtful 
ray. 

That  hope  had  fled,  and  all  within  was 
gloom ; 

That  hope  had  fled  — thy  woe  to 
frenzy  grew ; 

For  thou,  wed  to  misery  from  the 
womb  — 

Scarce  one  bright  scene  thy  night 
of  darkness  knew  ! 

Oft  when  the  moonbeam  on  the  cold 
bank  sleeps, 

Where  ’neath  the  dewy  turf  thy 
form  is  laid, 

In  silent  woe  thy  wretched  mother 
weeps, 

By  this  lone  tomb,  and  by  this  oak- 
tree’s  shade. 

“ Oh  ! softly  tread  : in  death  he  slum- 
bers here ; 

’Tis  here,”  she  cries,  “ within  this 
narrow  cell ! ” — 


870 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


The  bitter  sob,  the  wildly-starting 
tear, 

The  quivering  lip,  proclaim  the  rest 
too  well ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

“ Unus  tanta  dedit  ? — dedit  et  majora  datums 
Ni  celeri  letho  corriperetur,  erat.  ” 

— Don  Manuel  de  Souza  Coutino’s 
Epitaph  on  Camoens. 

The  hero  and  the  bard  is  gone  ! 

His  bright  career  on  earth  is  done, 
Where  with  a comet’s  blaze  he  shone. 

He  died  — where  vengeance  arms  the 
brave, 

Where  buried  freedom  quits  her  grave, 
In  regions  of  the  eastern  wave. 

Yet  not  before  his  ardent  lay 
Had  bid  them  chase  all  fear  away, 
And  taught  their  trumps  a bolder  bray. 

Thro’  him  their  ancient  valor  glows, 
And,  stung  by  thraldom’s  scathing 
woes, 

They  rise  again,  as  once  they  rose.1 

As  once  in  conscious  glory  bold, 

To  war  their  sounding  cars  they  roll’d, 
Uncrush’d,  untrampled,  uncoil  troll’d  ! 

Each  drop  that  gushes  from  their  side, 
Will  serve  to  swell  the  crimson  tide, 
That  soon  shall  whelm  the  Moslem’s 
pride  ! 

At  last  upon  their  lords  they  turn, 

At  last  the  shame  of  bondage  learn, 
At  last  they  feel  their  fetters  burn  ! 2 

Oh ! how  the  heart  expands  to  see 
An  injured  people  all  agree 
To  burst  those  fetters  and  be  free  ! 

Each  far-famed  mount  that  cleaves 
the  skies, 

Each  plain  where  buried  glory  lies, 
All,  all  exclaim  — “ Awake  ! arise  ! ” 

1 A little  exaggeration  may  be  pardoned  on 
a subject  so  inspiring. 

2 The  enthusiasm  the  noble  poet  excited 
reminds  us  of  Tyrtseus. 


Who  would  not  feel  their  wrongs  ? 
and  who 

Departed  freedom  would  not  rue, 
With  all  her  trophies  in  his  view  ? 

To  see  imperial  Athens  reign, 

And,  towering  o’er  the  vassal  main, 
Rise  in  embattled  strength  again  — 

To  see  rough  Sparta  train  once  more 
Her  infants’  ears  for  battle’s  roar, 
Stern,  dreadful,  chainless,  as  before  — 

Was  Byron’s  hope — was  Byron’s 
aim  : 

With  ready  heart  and  hand  he  came  ; 
But  perish’d  in  that  path  of  fame ! 


THE  WALK  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

“ Tremulo  sub  lumine.”  — Virgil. 

Soft,  shadowy  moonbeam ! by  thy 
light 

Sleeps  the  wide  meer  serenely  pale  : 

How  various  are  the  sounds  of  night, 
Borne  on  the  scarcely-rising  gale ! 

The  swell  of  distant  brook  is  heard, 
Whose  far-off  waters  faintly  roll ; 

And  piping  of  the  shrill  small  bird, 
Arrested  by  the  wand’ring  owl. 

Come  hither ! let  us  thread  with  care 
The  maze  of  this  green  path,  which 
binds 

The  beauties  of  the  broad  parterre, 
And  thro’  yon  fragrant  alley  winds. 

Or  on  this  old  bench  will  we  sit, 
Round  which  the  clust’ring  wood- 
bine wreathes, 

While  birds  of  night  around  us  flit ; 
And  thro’  each  lavish  wood-walk 
breathes, 

Unto  my  ravish’d  senses,  brought 
From  yon  thick-woven  odorous 
bowers, 

The  still  rich  breeze,  with  incense 
fraught 

Of  glowing  fruits  and  spangled 
flowers. 


THE  CUP  OF  POISON. 


871 


The  whispering  leaves,  the  gushing 
stream, 

Where  trembles  the  uncertain  moon, 

Suit  more  the  poet’s  pensive  dream, 
Than  all  the  jarring  notes  of  noon. 

Then,  to  the  thickly-crowded  mart 
The  eager  sons  of  interest  press  ; 

Then,  shine  the  tinsel  works  of  art  — 
Now,  all  is  Nature’s  loneliness ! 

Then,  wealth  aloft  in  state  displays 
The  glittering  of  her  gilded  cars ; 

Now,  dimly  stream  the  mingled  rays 
Of  yon  far-twinkling,  silver  stars. 

Yon  church,  whose  cold  gray  spire 
appears 

In  the  black  outline  of  the  trees, 

Conceals  the  object  of  my  tears, 
Whose  form  in  dreams  my  spirit 
sees. 

There  in  the  chilling  bed  of  earth 
The  chancel’s  letter’d  stone  above  — 

There  sleepeth  she  who  gave  me  birth, 
Who  taught  my  lips  the  hymn  of 
love  ! 

Yon  mossy  stems  of  ancient  oak, 

So  widely  crown’d  with  sombre 
shade, 

Those  ne’er  have  heard  the  woodman’s 
stroke 

Their  solemn,  secret  depths  invade. 

How  oft  the  grassy  way  I’ve  trod 
That  winds  their  knotty  boles  be- 
tween, 

And  gather’d  from  the  blooming  sod 
The  flowers  that  flourish’d  there 
unseen ! 

Rise ! let  us  trace  that  path  once 
more, 

While  o’er  our  track  the  cold  beams 
shine ; 

Down  this  low  shingly  vale,  and  o’er 
Yon  rude,  rough  bridge  of  prostrate 
pine. 


MITHRIDATES  PRESENTING 
BERENICE  WITH  THE  CUP 
OE  POISON. 

Oh  ! Berenice,  lorn  and  lost, 

This  wretched  soul  with  shame  is 
bleeding : 

Oh  ! Berenice,  I am  tost 

By  griefs,  like  wave  to  wTave  suc- 
ceeding. 

Fall’n  Pontus ! all  her  fame  is  gone, 
And  dim  the  splendor  of  her  glory  ; 

Low  in  the  west  her  evening  sun, 

And  dark  the  lustre  of  her  story. 

Dead  is  the  wreath  that  round  her 
brow 

Theglowinghands  of  Honorbraided: 

What  change  of  fate  can  wait  her  now, 
Her  sceptre  spoil’d,  her  throne  de- 
graded ? 

And  wilt  thou,  wilt  thou  basely  go, 
My  love,  thy  life,  thy  country  sham- 
ing, 

In  all  the  agonies  of  woe, 

’Mid  madd’ning  shouts,  and  stand- 
ards flaming  ? 

And  wilt  thou,  wilt  thou  basely  go, 
Proud  Rome’s  triumphal  car  adorn- 
ing ? 

Hark ! hark ! I hear  thee  answer 
“ No ! ” 

The  proffer’d  life  of  thraldom  scorn- 
ing. 

Lone,  crownless,  destitute,  and  poor, 
My  heart  with  bitter  pain  is  burn- 
ing; 

So  thick  a cloud  of  night  hangs  o’er, 
My  daylight  into  darkness  turning. 

Yet  though  my  spirit,  bow’d  with  ill, 
Small  hope  from  future  fortune 
borrows ; 

One  glorious  thought  shall  cheer  me 
still, 

That  thou  art  free  from  abject  sor- 
rows — 


872 


THE  BARD'S  FAREWELL. 


Art  free  forever  from  the  strife 
Of  slavery’s  pangs  and  tearful  an- 
guish ; 

For  life  is  death,  and  death  is  life, 

To  those  whose  limbs  in  fetters  lan- 
guish. 

Fill  high  the  bowl ! the  draught  is 
thine ! 

The  Romans  ! — now  thou  need’st 
not  heed  them ! 

’Tis  nobler  than  the  noblest  wine  — 
It  gives  thee  back  to  fame  and  free- 
dom ! 

The  scalding  tears  my  cheek  bedew ; 

My  life,  my  love,  my  all  — we  sever! 
One  last  embrace,  one  long  adieu, 
And  then  farewell — farewell  for- 
ever ! 

In  reality  Mithridates  had  no  personal  in- 
terview with  Monima  and  Berenice  before 
the  deaths  of  those  princesses,  but  only  sent 
his  eunuch  Bacchidas  to  signify  his  intention 
that  they  should  die.  I have  chosen  Bere- 
nice as  the  more  general  name,  though 
Monima  was  his  peculiar  favorite. 


THE  BARD’S  FAREWELL. 

“ The  king,  sensible  that  nothing  kept  alive 
the  ideas  of  military  valor  and  of  ancient  glory 
so  much  as  the  traditional  poetry  of  the  peo- 
ple— which,  assisted  by  the  power  of  music 
and  the  jollity  of  festivals,  made  deep  im- 
pression on  the  minds  of  the  youth  — gath- 
ered together  all  the  Welsh  bards,  and,  from 
a barbarous  though  not  absurd  policy,  or- 
dered them  to  be  put  to  death.”  — Hume. 

Snowdon  ! thy  cliffs  shall  hear  no 
more 

This  deep-toned  harp  again ; 

But  banner-cry  and  battle-roar 
Shall  form  a fiercer  strain  ! 

O’er  thy  sweet  chords,  my  magic  lyre  ! 

What  future  hand  shall  stray  ? 
What  brain  shall  feel  thy  master’s  fire, 
Or  frame  his  matchless  lay  ? 

Well  might  the  crafty  Edward  fear : 
Should  I but  touch  thy  chord, 

Its  slightest  sound  would  couch  the 
spear, 

And  bare  the  indignant  sword ! 


Full  well  he  knew  the  wizard-spell 
That  dwelt  upon  thy  string ; 

And  trembled,  when  he  heard  thy 
swell 

Thro’  Snowdon’s  caverns  ring  ! 

These  eyes  shall  sleep  in  death’s  dull 
night, 

This  hand  all  nerveless  lie, 

Ere  once  again  yon  orb  of  light 
Break  o’er  the  clear  blue  sky ! 

And  thou,  by  Hell’s  own  furies  nurst, 
Unfurl  thy  banner’s  pride ! 

But  know  that,  living,  thee  I cursed ; 
And,  cursing  thee,  I died ! 


EPIGRAM. 

Medea’s  herbs  her  magic  gave  — 
They  taught  her  how  to  kill  or  save  : 
No  foreign  aid  couldst  thou  devise, 
For  in  thyself  thy  magic  lies. 


ON  BEING  ASKED  FOR  A SIMILE, 

TO  ILLUSTRATE  THE  ADVANTAGE  OF  KEEP- 
ING THE  PASSIONS  SUBSERVIENT  TO 
REASON. 

As  the  sharp,  pungent  taste  is  the 
glory  of  mustard, 

But,  if  heighten’d,  would  trouble 
your  touchy  papillae ; 

As  a few  laurel-leaves  add  a relish  to 
custard, 

But,  if  many,  would  fight  with  your 
stomach  and  kill  ye : — 

So  the  passions,  if  freed  from  the  pre- 
cincts of  reason, 

Have  noxious  effects  — but  if  duly 
confined,  sir, 

Are  useful,  no  doubt  — this  each 
writer  agrees  on : 

So  I’ve  dish’d  up  a simile  just  to 
your  mind,  sir. 


THE  OLD  CHIEFTAIN. 


873 


EPIGRAM  ON  A MUSICIAN, 

WHOSE  HARP-STRINGS  WERE  CRACKED 
FROM  WANT  OF  USING. 

“ W iiy  dost  thou  not  string  thine  old 
harp  ? ” says  a friend  : 

“ Thy  complaints,”  replied  Dolce,  “I 
think  never  end ; 

I’ve  reason  enough  to  remember  the 
thing, 

For  you  always  are  harping  upon  the 
old  string.” 


THE  OLD  CHIEFTAIN. 

“ And  said  I,  that  my  limbs  were  old ! ” 

— Scott. 

Raise,  raise  the  song  of  the  hundred 
shells ! 

Though  my  hair  is  gray  and  my 
limbs  are  cold ; 

Yet  in  my  bosom  proudly  dwells 

The  memory  of  the  days  of  old ; 

When  my  voice  was  high,  and  my 
arm  was  strong, 

And  the  foeman  before  my  stroke 
would  bow, 

And  I could  have  raised  the  sounding 
song 

As  loudly  as  I hear  ye  now. 

For  when  I have  chanted  the  bold 
song  of  death, 

Not  a page  would  have  stay’d  in  the 
hall, 

Not  a lance  in  the  rest,  not  a sword  in 
the  sheath, 

Not  a shield  on  the  dim  gray  wall. 

And  who  might  resist  the  united 
powers 

Of  battle  and  music  that  day, 

When,  all  martiall’d  in  arms  on  the 
heaven-kissing  towers, 

Stood  the  chieftains  in  peerless 
array  ? 

When  our  enemy  sunk  from  our  eyes 
as  the  snow 


Which  falls  down  the  stream  in  the 
dell, 

When  each  word  that  I spake  was  the 
death  of  a foe, 

And  each  note  of  my  harp  was  his 
knell  ? 

So  raise  ye  the  song  of  the  hundred 
shells ; 

Though  my  hair  is  gray  and  my 
limbs  are  cold, 

Yet  in  my  bosom  proudly  dwells 

The  memory  of  the  days  of  old ! 


APOLLONIUS  RHODIUS’S 
COMPLAINT.1 

With  cutting  taunt  they  bade  me  lay 
My  high-strung  harp  aside, 

As  if  I dare  not  soar  away 
On  Fancy’s  plume  of  pride  ! 

Oh  ! while  there’s  image  in  my  brain 
And  vigor  in  my  hand, 

The  first  shall  frame  the  soul-fraught 
strain, 

The  last  these  chords  command ! 

’Tis  true,  I own,  the  starting  tear 
Has  swell’d  into  mine  eye, 

When  she,  whose  hand  the  plant 
should  rear, 

Could  bid  it  fade  and  die  : 

But,  deaf  to  cavil,  spite,  and  scorn, 

I still  must  wake  the  lyre ; 

And  still,  on  Fancy’s  pinions  borne, 
To  Helicon  aspire. 

And  all  the  ardent  lays  I pour, 
Another  realm  shall  claim  ; 

My  name  shall  live  — a foreign  shore 
Shall  consecrate  my  name. 

My  country’s2  scorn  I will  not  brook, 

1 This  eminent  poet,  resenting  the  unworthy 
treatment  of  the  Alexandrians,  quitted  their 
city,  where  he  had  been  for  some  time  libra- 
rian, and  retired  to  Rhodes. 

2 Alexandria,  however,  was  not  his  native 
city : he  was  born  at  Naucratis. 


874 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 


But  she  shall  rue  it  long ; 

And  Rhodes  shall  bless  the  hour  she 
took 

The  exiled  child  of  song. 


THE  FALL  OF  JERUSALEM. 
Jerusalem  ! Jerusalem  ! 

Thou  art  low ! thou  mighty  one, 
How  is  the  brilliance  of  thy  diadem, 
How  is  the  lustre  of  thy  throne 
Rent  from  thee,  and  thy  sun  of  fame 
Darken’d  by  the  shadowy  pinion 
Of  the  Roman  bird,  whose  sway 
All  the  tribes  of  earth  obey, 
Crouching  ’neath  his  dread  domin- 
ion, 

And  the  terrors  of  his  name ! 

How  is  thy  royal  seat  — whereon 
Sat  in  days  of  yore 
Lowly  Jesse’s  godlike  son, 

And  the  strength  of  Solomon, 

In  those  rich  and  happy  times 
When  the  ships  from  Tarshish 
bore 

Incense,  and  from  Ophir’s  land. 
With  silken  sail  and  cedar  oar, 
Wafting  to  Judea’s  strand 
All  the  wealth  of  foreign  climes  — 
How  is  thy  royal  seat  o’erthrown  ! 
Gone  is  all  thy  majesty  : 

Salem  ! Salem  ! city  of  kings, 
Thou  sittest  desolate  and  lone, 
Where  once  the  glory  of  the  Most 
High 

Dwelt  visibly  enshrined  be- 
tween the  wings 

Of  Cherubims,  within  whose  bright 
embrace 

The  golden  mercy  - seat  re- 
main’d : 

Land  of  Jehovah  ! view  that  sacred 
place 

Abandon’d  and  profaned ! 

Wail ! fallen  Salem  ! Wail : 

Mohammed’s  votaries  pollute 
thy  fane  ; 

The  dark  division  of  thine  holy  veil 
Is  rent  in  twain  ! 


Thrice  hath  Sion’s  crowned  rock 
Seen  thy  temple’s  marble  state, 
Awfully,  serenely  great, 

Towering  on  his  sainted  brow, 
Rear  its  pinnacles  of  snow  : 
Thrice,  with  desolating  shock, 

Down  to  earth  hath  seen  it  driv’n 
From  his  heights,  which  reach  to 
heav’n ! 

Wail,  fallen  Salem  ! Wail : 

Though  not  one  stone  above 
another 

There  was  left  to  tell  the  tale 

Of  the  greatness  of  thy  story, 
Yet  the  long  lapse  of  ages  can- 
not smother 

The  blaze  of  thine  abounding 
glory ; 

Which  thro’  the  mist  of  rolling  years, 
O’er  history’s  darken’d  page  appears, 
Like  the  morning  star,  whose  gleam 
Gazeth  thro’  the  waste  of  night, 
What  time  old  Ocean’s  purple  stream 
In  his  cold  surge  hath  deeply 
laved 

Its  ardent  front  of  dewy  light. 

Oh  ! who  shall  e’er  forget  thy 
bands,  which  braved 
The  terrors  of  the  desert’s  barren  reign, 
And  that  strong  arm  which  broke  the 
chain 

Wherein  ye  foully  lay  enslaved. 

Or  that  sublime  Theocracy  which 
paved 

Your  way  thro’  ocean’s  vast  domain. 
And  on,  far  on  to  Canaan’s  emerald 
plain 

Led  the  Israelitish  crowd 
With  a pillar  and  a cloud  ? 

Signs  on  earth  and  signs  on  high 
Prophesied  thy  destiny  ; 

A trumpet’s  voice  ab«ve  thee 
rung, 

A starry  sabre  o’er  thee  hung  ; 
Visions  of  fiery  armies,  redly  flashing 
In  the  many-color’d  glare 
Of  the  setting  orb  of  day ; 
And  flaming  chariots,  fiercely  dashing, 
Swept  along  the  peopled  air, 

In  magnificent  array : 


LAMENTATION  OF  THE  PER  U VI A NS. 


875 


The  temple  doors,  on  brazen  hinges 
crashing, 

Burst  open  with  appalling 
sound, 

A wondrous  radiance  streaming 
round  ! 


“ Our  blood  be  on  our  heads  ! ” ye  said  : 
Such  your  awless  imprecation  : 
Full  bitterly  at  length  ’twas  paid 
Upon  your  captive  nation  ! 

Arms  of  adverse  legions  bound 
thee, 

Plague  and  pestilence  stood  round 
thee  ; 

Seven  weary  suns  had  brighten’d 
Syria’s  sky, 

Yet  still  was  heard  th’  unceasing 
cry  — 

“ From  south,  north,  east,  and 
west,  a voice, 

Woe  unto  thy  sons  and 
daughters  ! 

W oe  to  Salem ! thou  art  lost ! ” 
A sound  divine 

Came  from  the  sainted,  secret,  inmost 
shrine  : 

“ Let  us  go  hence  ! ” — and  then  a 
noise  — 

The  thunders  of  the  partingDeity, 
Like  the  rush  of  countless 
waters, 

Like  the  murmur  of  a host ! 


Though  now  each  glorious  hope 
be  blighted, 

Yet  an  hour  shall  come,  when  ye, 
Though  scatter’d  like  the  chaff,  shall 
be 

Beneath  one  standard  once  again 
united  ; 

When  your  wandering  race 
shall  own, 

Prostrate  at  the  dazzling  throne 
Of  your  high  Almighty  Lord, 
The  wonders  of  His  searchless 
word, 

Th’  unfading  splendors  of  His 
Son  ! 


LAMENTATION  OF  THE 
PERUVIANS. 

The  foes  of  the  East  have  come  down 
on  our  shore, 

And  the  state  and  the  strength  of 
Peru  are  no  more  : 

Oh  ! cursed,  doubly  cursed,  was  that 
desolate  hour, 

When  they  spread  o’er  our  land  in  the 
pride  of  their  power  ! 

Lament  for  the  Inca,  the  son  of  the 
Sun ; 

Ataliba’s  fallen  — Peru  is  undone  ! 


Pizarro  ! Pizarro  ! though  conquest 
may  wing 

Her  course  round  thy  banners  that 
wanton  in  air ; 

Yet  remorse  to  thy  grief-stricken  con- 
science shall  cling, 

And  shriek  o’er  thy  banquets  in 
sounds  of  despair. 

It  shall  tell  thee,  that  he  who  beholds 
from  his  throne 

The  blood  thou  hast  spilt  and  the 
deeds  thou  hast  done, 

Shall  mock  at  thy  fear,  and  rejoice  at 
thy  groan, 

And  arise  in  his  wrath  for  the  death 
of  his  son ! 

Why  blew  ye,  ye  gales,  when  the  mur- 
derer came  % 

Why  fann’d  ye  the  fire,  and  why  fed 
ye  the  flame  ? 

Why  sped  ye  his  sails  o’er  the  ocean 
so  blue  1 

Are  ye  also  combined  for  the  fall  of 
Peru  ? 

And  thou,  whom  no  prayers,  no  en- 
treaties can  bend, 

Thy  crimes  and  thy  murders  to  heav’n 
shall  ascend : 

For  vengeance  the  ghosts  of  our  fore- 
fathers call  : 

At  thy  threshold,  Pizarro,  in  death 
shalt  thou  fall ! 

Ay,  there  — even  there,  in  the  halls 
of  thy  pride, 

With  the  blood  of  thine  heart  shall 
thy  portals  be  dyed  ! 


876 


SHORT  EULOGIUM  ON  HOMER. 


Lo  ! dark  as  the  tempests  that  frown 
from  the  North, 

From  the  cloud  of  past  time  Manco 
Capac  looks  forth  — 

Great  Inca ! to  whom  the  gay  day- 
star  gave  birth, 

Whose  throne  is  the  heav’n,  and  whose 
foot-stool  the  earth  — 

His  visage  is  sad  as  the  vapors  that 
rise 

From  the  desolate  mountain  of  fire  to 
the  skies ; 

But  his  eye  flashes  flame  as  the  light- 
nings that  streak 

Those  volumes  that  shroud  the  vol- 
cano’s high  peak. 

Hark  ! he  speaks  — bids  us  fly  to  our 
mountains,  and  cherish 
Bold  freedom’s  last  spark  ere  forever 
it  perish  ; 

Bids  us  leave  these  wild  condors  to 
prey  on  each  other, 

Each  to  bathe  his  fierce  beak  in  the 
gore  of  his  brother ! 

This  symbol  we  take  of  our  godhead 
the  Sun, 

And  curse  thee  and  thine  for  the  deeds 
thou  hast  done. 

May  the  curses  pursue  thee  of  those 
thou  hast  slain, 

Of  those  that  have  fallen  in  war  on 
the  plain, 

When  we  went  forth  to  greet  ye  — 
but  foully  ye  threw 
Your  dark  shots  of  death  on  the  sons 
of  Peru. 

May  the  curse  of  the  widow  — the 
curse  of  the  brave  — 

The  curse  of  the  fatherless,  cleave  to 
thy  grave  ! 

And  the  words  which  they  spake  with 
their  last  dying  breath 
Embitter  the  pangs  and  the  tortures 
of  death ! 

May  he,  that  assists  be  childless  and 
poor, 

With  famine  behind  him,  and  death 
at  his  door : 

May  his  nights  be  all  sleepless,  his 
days  spent  alone, 


And  ne’er  may  he  list  to  a voice  but 
his  own  ! 

Or,  if  he  shall  sleep,  in  his  dreams 
may  he  view 

The  ghost  of  our  Inca,  the  fiends  of 
Peru : 

May  the  flames  of  destruction  that 
here  he  has  spread 

Be  tenfold  return’d  on  his  murderous 
head ! 


SHORT  EULOGIUM  ON  HOMER. 
Immortal  bard  ! thy  warlike  lay 
Demands  the  greenest,  brightest  bay, 
That  ever  wreathed  the  brow 
Of  minstrel  bending  o’er  his  lyre, 
With  ardent  hand  and  soul  of  fire, 
Or  then,  or  since,  or  now. 


“ A SISTER,  SWEET  ENDEAR- 
ING NAME  ! ” 

“ Why  should  we  mourn  for  the  blest?  ” 
— Byron. 

A sister,  sweet  endearing  name  ! 

Beneath  this  tombstone  sleeps  ; 

A brother  (who  such  tears  could 
blame  ?) 

In  pensive  anguish  weeps. 

I saw  her  when  in  health  she  wore 
A soft  and  matchless  grace, 

And  sportive  pleasures  wanton’d  o’er 
The  dimples  of  her  face. 

I saw  her  when  the  icy  wind 
Of  sickness  froze  her  bloom  ; 

I saw  her  (bitterest  stroke  !)  consign’d 
To  that  cold  cell  — the  tomb  ! 

Oh ! when  I heard  the  crumbling 
mould 

Upon  her  coffin  fall, 

And  thought  within  she  lay  so  cold, 
And  knew  that  worms  would  crawl 

O’er  her  sweet  cheek’s  once  lovely 
dye, 

I shudder’d  as  I turn’d 
From  the  sad  spot,  and  in  mine  eye 
The  full  warm  tear-drop  burn’d. 


THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  IN  THE  DARK  BLUE  MAINE  877 


Again  I come  — again  I feel 
Reflection’s  poignant  sting, 

As  I retrace  my  sister’s  form, 

And  back  her  image  bring. 

Herself  I cannot  — from  the  sod 
She  will  not  rise  again ; 

But  this  sweet  thought,  “She  rests 
with  God,” 

Relieves  a brother’s  pain. 


“THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN  IN 
THE  DARK  BLUE  MAIN.” 

“ Irreparabile  tempus.”  — Virgil. 

The  sun  goes  down  in  the  dark  blue 
main, 

To  rise  the  brighter  to-morrow; 

But  oh ! what  charm  can  restore 
again 

Those  days  now  consign’d  to  sor- 
row 1 

The  moon  goes  down  on  the  calm 
still  night, 

To  rise  sweeter  than  when  she 
parted ; 

But  oh ! what  charm  can  restore  the 
light 

Of  joy  to  the  broken-hearted  ? 

The  blossoms  depart  in  the  wintry 
hour, 

To  rise  in  vernal  glory ; 

But  oh  ! what  charm  can  restore  the 
flower 

Of  youth  to  the  old  and  hoary  1 


“ STILL,  MUTE,  AND  MOTION- 
LESS SHE  LIES.” 

“ Belle  en  sa  fleur  d’adolescence.” 

— Berquin. 

“ Lovely  in  death  the  beauteous  ruin  lay.” 

— Young. 

Still,  mute,  and  motionless  she  lies, 
The  mist  of  death  has  veil’d  her 
eyes. 

And  is  that  bright-red  lip  so  pale, 


Whose  hue  was  freshen’d  by  a gale 
More  sweet  than  summer  e’er  could 
bring 

To  fan  her  flowers  with  balmy  wing ! 
Thy  breath,  the  summer  gale,  is  fled, 
And  leaves  thy  lip,  the  flower,  de- 
cay’d. 

When  I was  young,  with  fost’ring 
care 

I rear’d  a tulip  bright  and  fair, 

And  saw  its  lovely  leaves  expand, 
The  labor  of  my  infant  hand. 

But  winter  came  — its  varied  dye 
Each  morn  grew  fainter  to  mine  eye  ; 
Till,  with’ring,  it  was  bright  no  more, 
Nor  bloom’d  as  it  was  wont  before  : 
And  gazing  there  in  boyish  grief, 
Upon  the  dull  and  alter’d  leaf, 

“ Alas  ! sweet  flower,”  I cried  in  vain, 
“Would  I could  bid  thee  blush 
again ! ” 

So  now,  “Return,  thou  crimson  dye, 
To  Celia’s  lip ! ” I wildly  cry  ; 

And  steal  upon  my  hopeless  viewr, 
And  flush  it  with  reviving  hue, 

Soft  as  the  early  vermeil  given 
To  the  dim  paleness  of  the  heaven 
When  slowly  gaining  on  the  sight, 

It  breaks  upon  the  cheerless  white. 

It  is  an  idle  wish  — a dream  — 

I may  not  see  the  glazed  eye  beam  ; 

I may  not  warm  the  damps  of  death, 
Or  link  again  the  scatter’d  wreath ; 
Array  in  leaves  the  wintry  scene, 

Or  make  parch’d  Afric’s  deserts 
green ; 

Replace  the  rose-bud  on  the  tree, 

Or  breathe  the  breath  of  life  in  thee. 


“ OH  ! NEVER  MAY  FROWNS 
AND  DISSENSION 
MOLEST.” 

“ Ipse  meique 

Ante  Larem  proprium.”  — Horace. 

Oh  ! never  may  frowns  and  dissen- 
sion ljiolest 

The  pleasure  I find  at  the  social 
hearth  ; 

A pleasure  the  dearest  — the  purest 
— the  best 


878 


LINES. 


Of  all  that  are  found  or  enjoy’d  on 
the  earth  ! 

For  who  could  e’er  traverse  this  val- 
ley of  tears, 

Without  the  dear  comforts  of 
friendship  and  home ; 

And  bear  all  the  dark  disappoint- 
ments and  fears, 

Which  chill  most  of  our  joys  and 
annihilate  some  ? 

Vain,  bootless  pursuers  of  honor  and 
fame  ! 

’Tis  idle  to  tell  ye,  what  soon  ye 
must  prove  — 

That  honor’s  a bauble,  and  glory  a 
name, 

When  put  in  the  balance  with  friend- 
ship and  love. 

For  when  by  fruition  their  pleasure  is 
gone, 

We  think  of  them  no  more  — they 
but  charm  for  a while  ; 

When  the  objects  of  love  and  affec- 
tion are  flown, 

With  pleasure  we  cling  to  their 
memories  still ! 


ON  A DEAD  ENEMY. 

“ Non  odi  mortuum.”  — Cicero. 

I came  in  haste  with  cursing  breath, 
And  heart  of  hardest  steel ; 

But  when  I saw  thee  cold  in  death, 

I felt  as  man  should  feel. 

For  when  I look  upon  that  face, 

That  cold,  unheeding,  frigid  brow, 
Where  neither  rage  nor  fear  has 
place, 

By  Heaven ! I cannot  hate  thee 
now ! 


LINES.1 

“ Cur  pendet  tacita  fistula  cum  lyra?  ” 

— Horace. 

Whence  is  it,  friend,  that  thine  en- 
chanting lyre 

1 Occasioned  by  hearing  an  ardent  and 
beautiful  description  of  the  scenery  of 
Southern  America  given  by  a gentleman 
whom  the  author  persuaded  to  put  his  ideas 
into  the  language  of  poetry. 


Of  wizard  charm,  should  thus  in 
silence  lie  1 

Ah  ! why  not  boldly  sweep  its  chords 
of  fire, 

And  rouse  to  life  its  latent  har- 
mony ? 

Thy  fancy,  fresh,  exuberant,  bound- 
less, wild, 

Like  the  rich  herbage  of  thy  Plata’s 
shore, 

By  Song’s  resistless  witchery  beguiled 

Would  then  transport  us,  since  it 
charm’d  before  ! 

For  if  thy  vivid  thoughts  possess’d  a 
spell, 

Which  chain’d  our  ears,  and  fix’d 
attention’s  gaze, 

As  at  the  social  board  wTe  heard  thee 
tell 

Of  Chili’s  woods  and  Orellana’s 
maze  — 

How  will  they,  deck’d  in  Song’s  en- 
livening grace. 

Demand  our  praise,  with  added 
beauties  told; 

How  in  thy  potent  language  shall  we 
trace 

Those  thoughts  more  vigorous  and 
those  words  more  bold  ! 


THE  DUKE  OF  ALYA’S  OB- 
SERVATION ON  KINGS.1 

Kings,  when  to  private  audience  they 
descend, 

And  make  the  baffled  courtier  their 

prey, 

Do  use  an  orange,  as  they  treat  a 
friend  — 

Extract  the  juice,  and  cast  the  rind 
away. 

When  thou  art  favor’d  by  thy  sover- 
eign’s eye, 

Let  not  his  glance  thine  inmost 
thoughts  discover ; 

Or  he  will  scan  thee  through,  and  lay 
thee  by, 

1 See  D’Israeli’s  “ Curiosities  of  Litera- 
ture.” 


THOU  CAME  ST  TO  THY  BOWER , MY  LOVE: 


879 


Like  some  old  book  which  he  has 
read  all  over. 


“ AH  ! YES,  THE  LIP  MAY 
FAINTLY  SMILE.” 

Ah  ! yes,  the  lip  may  faintly  smile, 
The  eye  may  sparkle  for  a while  ; 

But  never  from  that  wither’d  heart 
The  consciousness  of  ill  shall  part ! 

That  glance,  that  smile  of  passing 
light, 

Are  as  the  rainbow  of  the  night ; 

But  seldom  seen,  it  dares  to  bloom 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  gloom. 

Its  tints  are  sad  and  coldly  pale, 
Dim-glimmering  thro’  their  misty 
veil ; 

Unlike  the  ardent  hues  which  play 
Along  the  flowery  bow  of  day. 

The  moonbeams  sink  in  dark-robed 
shades, 

Too  soon  the  airy  vision  fades ; 

And  double  night  returns,  to  shroud 
The  volumes  of  the  showery  cloud. 


“ THOU  CAMEST  TO  THY 
BOWER,  MY  LOVE.” 

“ Virgo  egregia  forma.”  — Terence. 
Thou  earnest  to  thy  bower,  my  love, 
across  the  musky  grove, 

To  fan  thy  blooming  charms  within 
the  coolness  of  the  shade ; 

Thy  locks  were  like  a midnight  cloud 
Avith  silver  moonbeams  wove,1 
And  o’er  thy  face  the  varying  tints  of 
youthful  passion  play’d. 

Thy  breath  was  like  the  sandal-wood 
that  casts  a rich  perfume, 

Thy  blue  eyes  mock’d  the  lotos  in  the 
noonday  of  his  bloom  ; 

1  A simile  elicited  from  the  songs  of  Jaya- 

deva,  the  Horace  of  India. 


Thy  cheeks  were  like  the  beamy  flush 
that  gilds  the  breaking  day, 

And  in  th’  ambrosia  of  thy  smiles  the 
god  of  rapture  lay.1 

Fair  as  the  cairba-stone  art  thou,  that 
stone  of  dazzling  white,2 

Ere  yet  unholy  fingers  changed  its 
milk-white  hue  to  night ; 

And  lovelier  than  the  loveliest  glance 
from  Even’s  placid  star, 

And  brighter  than  the  sea  of  gold,3 
the  gorgeous  Himsagar. 

In  high  Mohammed’s  boundless 
heaven  A1  Cawthor’s  stream 
may  play, 

The  fount  of  youth  may  sparkling 
gush  beneath  the  western 
ray ; 4 

And  Tasnim’s  wave  in  crystal  cups 
may  glow  with  musk  and  wine, 

But  oh  ! their  lustre  could  not  match 
one  beauteous  tear  of  thine  ! 


TO . ♦ 

And  shall  we  say  the  rose  is  sweet, 
Nor  grant  that  claim  to  thee, 

In  whom  the  loveliest  virtues  meet 
In  social  harmony  ? 

And  shall  we  call  the  lily  pure, 

Nor  grant  that  claim  to  thee, 

Whose  taintless,  spotless  soul  is,  sure, 
The  shrine  of  purity  'i 

And  shall  we  say  the  sun  is  bright, 
Nor  grant  that  claim  to  thee, 

Whose  form  and  mind  with  equal 
light 

Both  beam  so  radiantly  1 

1 Vide  Horace’s  ode,  “ Pulchris  excurat 
in  genis.” 

2 Vide  Sale’s  “Koran.” 

3 See  Sir  William  Jones  on  Eastern  plants. 

4 The  fabled  fountain  of  youth  in  the  Baha- 
mas, in  search  of  which  Juan  Ponce  de 
Leon  discovered  Florida. 


880 


THE  PASSIONS. 


THE  PASSIONS. 

“You  have  passions  in  your  heart — 
scorpions;  they  sleep  now  — beware  how 
you  awaken  them!  they  will  sting  you  even 
to  death ! ” — Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  vol.  iii. 

Beware,  beware,  ere  thou  takest 
The  draught  of  misery  ! 

Beware,  beware,  ere  thou  wakest 
The  scorpions  that  sleep  in  thee  ! 

The  woes  which  thou  canst  not  num- 
ber, 

As  yet  are  wrapt  in  sleep ; 

Yet  oh  ! yet  they  slumber, 

But  their  slumbers  are  not  deep. 

Yet  oh  ! yet  while  the  rancor 
Of  hate  has  no  place  in  thee, 

While  thy  buoyant  soul  has  an  anchor 
In  youth’s  bright  tranquil  sea  : 

Yet  oh  ! yet  while  the  blossom 
Of  hope  is  blooming  fair, 

While  the  beam  of  bliss  lights  thy 
bosom  — 

Oh  ! rouse  not  the  serpent  there ! 

For  bitter  thy  tears  will  trickle 
’Neath  misery’s  heavy  load, 

When  the  world  has  put  in  its  sickle 
To  the  crop  which  fancy  sow’d. 

When  the  world  has  rent  the  cable 
That  bound  thee  to  the  shore, 

And  launch’d  thee  weak  and  unable 
To  bear  the  billow’s  roar ; 

Then  the  slightest  touch  will  waken 
Those  pangs  that  will  always  grieve 
thee, 

And  thy  soul  will  be  fiercely  shaken 
With  storms  that  will  never  leave 
thee ! 

So  beware,  beware,  ere  thou  takest 
The  draught  of  misery ! 

Beware,  beware,  ere  thou  wakest 
The  scorpions  that  sleep  in  thee  ! 


THE  HIGH-PRIEST  TO  ALEX- 
ANDER. 

“ Derrarae  en  todo  cl  orbe  de  la  tierra 
Las  armas,  el  furor,  y nueva  guerra.” 

— La  Araucana,  Canto  xvi. 

Go  forth,  thou  man  of  force  1 
The  world  is  all  thine  own  ; 

Before  thy  dreadful  course 
Shall  totter  every  throne. 

Let  India’s  jewels  glow 
Upon  thy  diadem  : 

Go,  forth  to  conquest  go, 

But  spare  Jerusalem. 

For  the  God  of  gods,  which  liveth 
Through  all  eternity, 

’Tis  He  alone  which  giveth 
And  taketh  victory : 

’Tis  He  the  bow  that  blasteth, 
And  breaketh  the  proud  one’s 
quiver ; 

And  the  Lord  of  armies  resteth 
In  His  Holy  of  Holies  forever ! 

For  God  is  Salem’s  spear, 

And  God  is  Salem’s  sword ; 

What  mortal  man  shall  dare 
To  combat  with  the  Lord  1 
Every  knee  shall  bow 
Before  His  awful  sight; 

Every  thought  sink  low 
Before  the  Lord  of  might. 

For  the  God  of  gods,  which  liveth 
Through  all  eternity, 

’Tis  He  alone  which  giveth 
And  taketh  victory : 

’Tis  He  the  bow  that  blasteth, 
And  breaketh  the  proud  one’s 
quiver ; 

And  the  Lord  of  armies  resteth 
In  His  Holy  of  Holies  forever  ! 


“THE  DEW,  WITH  WHICH  THE 
EARLY  MEAD  IS  DREST.” 

“Spes  nunquam  implenda.”  — Lucretius. 
The  dew,  with  which  the  early  mead 
is  drest, 

Which  fell  by  night  inaudible  and 
soft, 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN. 


881 


Mocks  the  foil’d  eye  that  would  its 
hues  arrest, 

That  glance  and  change  so  quickly 
and  so  oft. 

So  in  this  fruitless  sublunary  waste, 

This  trance  of  life,  this  unsubstan- 
tial show, 

Each  hope  wre  grasp  at  flies,  to  be  re- 
placed 

By  one  as  fair  and  as  fallacious  too. 

His  limbs  encased  in  aromatic  wax, 

The  jocund  bee  hies  home  his  hoard 
to  fill : 

On  human  joys  there  lies  the  heavy 
tax 

Of  hope  unrealized,  and  beck’ning 
still. 

But  why  with  earth’s  vile  fuel  should 
we  feed 

Those  hopes  which  Heaven,  and 
Heaven  alone,  should  claim  % 

Why  should  we  lean  upon  a broken 
reed, 

Or  chase  a meteor’s  evanescent 
flame  1 

O man ! relinquish  Passion’s  baleful 
joys, 

And  bend  at  Virtue’s  bright  unsul- 
lied shrine ; 

Oh!  learn  her  chaste  and  hallow’d 
glow  to  prize, 

Pure  — unalloy’d  — ineffable  — di- 
vine ! 


ON  THE  MOONLIGHT  SHINING 

UPON  A FRIEND’S  GRAVE. 

Show  not,  O moon  ! with  pure  and  liq- 
uid beam, 

That  mournful  spot,  where  Memory 
fears  to  tread ; 

Glance  on  the  grove,  or  quiver  in  the 
stream, 

Or  tip  the  hills  — but  shine  not  on 
the  dead: 

It  wounds  the  lonely  hearts  that  still 
survive, 

And  after  buried  friends  are  doom’d 
to  live. 


A CONTRAST. 

Dost  ask  why  Laura’s  soul  is  riv’n 
By  pangs  her  prudence  can’t  com- 
mand ? 

To  one  who  heeds  not  she  has  giv’n 
Her  heart,  alas  ! without  her  hand. 

But  Chloe  claims  our  sympathy, 

To  wealth  a martyr  and  a slave ; 
For  when  the  knot  she  dared  to  tie, 
Her  hand  without  her  heart  she  gave. 


EPIGRAM. 

A saint  by  soldiers  fetter’d  lay ; 
An  angel  took  his  bonds  away. 
An  angel  put  the  chains  on  me  ; 
And  ’tis  a soldier  sets  me  free.1 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN. 

“ It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darken’d  dust  behind.” 

— Byron. 

I die  — my  limbs  with  icy  feeling 
Bespeak  that  Death  is  near ; 

His  frozen  hand  each  pulse  is  stealing; 
Yet  still  I do  not  fear  ! 

There  is  a hope  — not  frail  as  that 
Which  rests  on  human  things  — 
The  hope  of  an  immortal  state, 

And  with  the  King  of  kings  ! 

And  ye  may  gaze  upon  my  brow, 
Which  is  not  sad,  tho’  pale  ; 

These  hope-illumined  features  show 
But  little  to  bewail. 

Death  should  not  chase  the  wonted 
bloom 

From  off  the  Christian’s  face  ; 

111  prelude  of  the  bliss  to  come, 
Prepared  by  heavenly  grace. 

1 The  reader  must  suppose  a young  man 
deeply  in  love,  but  persuaded  by  a friend  in 
the  army  to  lead  a military  life,  and  forget 
the  charms  of  the  siren  who  cramped  the 
vigor  of  his  soul. 


882 


HOW  GAYLY  SINKS  THE  GORGEOUS  SUNT 


Lament  no  more  — no  longer  weep 
That  I depart  from  men  ; 

Brief  is  the  intermediate  sleep. 
And  bliss  awaits  me  then  ! 


“THOSE  WORLDLY  GOODS 
THAT,  DISTANT,  SEEM.” 

Those  worldly  goods  that,  distant, 
seem 

With  every  joy  and  bliss  to  teem, 

Are  spurn’d  as  trivial  when  possess’d, 
And,  when  acquired,  delight  us  least : 
As  torrent-rainbows,1  which  appear 
Still  dwindling  as  we  still  draw  near ; 
And  yet  contracting  on  the  eye, 

Till  the  bright  circling  colors  die. 


“ HOW  GAYLY  SINKS  THE  GOR- 
GEOUS SUN  WITHIN  HIS 
GOLDEN  BED.” 

“ Tu  fais  naitre  la  lumi&re 

Du  sein  de  l’obscurite^.”  — Rousseau. 

How  gayly  sinks  the  gorgeous  sun 
within  his  golden  bed, 

As  heaven’s  immortal  azure  glows  and 
deepens  into  red  ! 

How  gayly  shines  the  burnish’d  main 
beneath  that  living  light, 

And  trembles  with  his  million  waves 
magnificently  bright ! 

But  ah  ! how  soon  that  orb  of  day 
must  close  his  burning  eye, 
And  night,  in  sable  pall  array’d,  in- 
volve yon  lovely  sky  ! 

irrhe  term  “ rainbows  ” is  not  exactly  ap- 
plicable here,  as  I mean  the  bow  after  it  has 
assumed  the  circular  figure.  “ The  sun  shin- 
ing full  upon  it  (viz.,  the  Fall  of  Staubbach) 
formed  toward  the  bottom  of  the  fall  a mini- 
ature rainbow  extremely  bright:  while  I 

stood  at  some  distance,  the  rainbow  assumed 
a semicircular  figure;  as  I approached,  the 
extreme  points  gradually  coincided,  and 
formed  a complete  circle  of  the  most  lively 
and  brilliant  colors.  In  order  to  have  a still 
fairer  view,  I ventured  nearer  and  nearer,  the 
circle  at  the  same  time  becoming  smaller  and 
smaller:  and  as  I stood  quite  under  the  fall, 
it  suddenly  disappeared.”  — Coxe’s  Switzer- 
land. 


E’en  thus  in  life  our  fairest  scenes  are 
preludes  to  our  woe ; 

For  fleeting  as  that  glorious  beam  is 
happiness  below. 

But  what  'l  though  evil  fates  may 
frown  upon  our  mortal  birth, 
Yet  Hope  shall  be  the  star  that  lights 
our  night  of  grief  on  earth  : 
And  she  shall  point  to  sweeter  morns, 
when  brighter  suns  shall  rise, 
And  spread  the  radiance  of  their  rays 
o’er  earth,  and  sea,  and  skies  ! 


“OH!  YE  WILD  WINDS,  THAT 
ROAR  AND  RAVE.” 

“ It  is  the  great  army  of  the  dead  returning 
on  the  northern  blast.” 

— Song  of  the  Five  Bards  in  Ossian. 

Oh  ! ye  wild  winds,  that  roar  and  rave 
Around  the  headland’s  stormy  brow, 
That  toss  and  heave  the  Baltic  wave, 
And  bid  the  sounding  forest  bow, 

Whence  is  your  course  ? and  do  ye 
bear 

The  sigh  of  other  worlds  along, 
When  through  the  dark  immense  of  air 
Ye  rush  in  tempests  loud  and  strong? 

Methinks,  upon  your  moaning  course 
I hear  the  army  of  the  dead ; 

Each  on  his  own  invisible  horse, 
Triumphing  in  his  trackless  tread. 

For  when  the  moon  conceals  her  ray, 
And  midnight  spreads  her  darkest 
veil, 

Borne  on  the  air,  and  far  away, 

Upon  the  eddying  blasts  they  sail. 

Then,  then  their  thin  and  feeble  bands 
Along  the  echoing  winds  are  roll’d  ; 
The  bodiless  tribes  of  other  lands  ! 
The  formless,  misty  sons  of  old  ! 

And  then  at  times  their  wailings  rise, 
The  shrilly  wailings  of  the  grave  ! 
And  mingle  with  the  madden’d  skies, 
The  rush  of  wind,  and  roar  of  wave. 


SWITZERLAND. 


883 


Heard  you  that  sound  ? It  was  the 
hum 

Of  the  innumerable  host, 

As  down  the  northern  sky  they  come, 
Lamenting  o’er  their  glories  lost. 

Now  for  a space  each  shadowy  king, 
Who  sway’d  of  old  some  mighty 
realm, 

Mounts  on  the  tempest’s  squally  wing, 
And  grimly  frowns  thro’  barred 
helm. 

Now  each  dim  ghost,  with  awful  yells, 
Uprears  on  high  his  cloudy  form  ; 
And  with  his  feeble  accent  swells 
The  hundred  voices  of  the  storm. 

Why  leave  ye  thus  the  narrow  cell, 

Ye  lords  of  night  and  anarchy  ! 
Your  robes  the  vapors  of  the  dell, 
Your  swords  the  meteors  of  the  sky  1 

Your  bones  are  whitening  on  the  heath  ; 

Your  fame  is  in  the  minds  of  men  : 
And  would  ye  break  the  sleep  of  death, 
That  ye  might  live  to  war  again  1 


SWITZERLAND. 

“ Tous  les  objets  de  mon  amour, 
Nos  clairs  ruisseaux, 

Nos  hameaux, 

Nos  coteaux, 

Nos  montagnes?  ” 

— Iianz  des  Vaches. 

With  Memory’s  eye, 

Thou  land  of  joy  ! 

I view  thy  cliffs  once  more  ; 
And  tho’  thy  plains 
Red  slaughter  stains, 

’Tis  Ereedom’s  blessed  gore. 

Thy  woody  dells, 

And  shadowy  fells, 

Exceed  a monarch’s  halls  ; 
Thy  pine-clad  hills, 

And  gushing  rills, 

And  foaming  water-falls. 

The  Gallic  foe 
Has  work’d  thee  woe, 


But  trumpet  never  scared  thee  ; 
How  could  he  think 
That  thou  wouldst  shrink, 

With  all  thy  rocks  to  guard  thee  ? 

E’en  now  the  Gaul, 

That  wrought  thy  fall, 

At  his  own  triumph  wonders ; 

So  long  the  strife 
For  death  and  life, 

So  loud  our  rival  thunders  ! 

Oh  ! when  shall  Time 
Avenge  the  crime. 

And  to  our  rights  restore  us  1 
And  bid  the  Seine 
Be  choked  with  slain, 

And  Paris  quake  before  us  ? 


A GLANCE. 

Lady  ! you  threw  a glance  at  me, 

I knew  its  meaning  well ; 

He  who  has  loved,  and  only  he, 

Its  mysteries  can  tell : 

That  hieroglyphic  of  the  brain, 
Which  none  but  Cupid’s  priests  ex- 
plain.1 


BABYLON. 

“ Come  down,  and  sit  in  the  dust,  O virgin 
daughter  of  Babylon,  sit  on  the  ground  : there 
is  no  throne.”  — Isaiah  xlvii.,  1. 

Bow,  daughter  of  Babylon,  bow  thee 
to  dust ! 

Thine  heart  shall  be  quell’d,  and  thy 
pride  shall  be  crush’d  : 

Weep,  Babylon,  weep  ! for  thy  splen- 
dor is  past ; 

And  they  come  like  the  storm  in  the 
day  of  the  blast. 

Howl,  desolate  Babylon,  lost  one  and 
lone  ! 

And  bind  thee  in  sackcloth  — for 
where  is  thy  throne  ? 

J None  but  the  priests  could  interpret  the 
Egyptian  hieroglyphics. 


884 


OH,  WERE  THIS  HEART  OF  HARDEST  STEELE 


Like  a wine-press  in  wrath  will  I tram- 
ple thee  down, 

And  rend  from  thy  temples  the  pride 
of  thy  crown. 

Though  thy  streets  be  a hundred,  thy 
gates  be  all  brass, 

Yet  thy  proud  ones  of  war  shall  be 
wither’d  like  grass  ; 

Thy  gates  shall  be  broken,  thy 
strength  be  laid  low, 

And  thy  streets  shall  resound  to  the 
shouts  of  the  foe  ! 

Though  thy  chariots  of  power  on  thy 
battlements  bound. 

And  the  grandeur  of  waters  encom- 
pass thee  round ; 

Yet  thy  walls  shall  be  shaken,  thy 
waters  shall  fail, 

Thy  matrons  shall  shriek,  and  thy 
king  shall  be  pale. 

The  terrible  day  of  thy  fall  is  at 
hand, 

When  my  rage  shall  descend  on  the 
face  of  thy  land  ; 

The  lances  are  pointed,  the  keen 
sword  is  bared, 

The  shields  are  anointed,1  the  helmets 
prepared. 

I call  upon  Cyrus ! He  comes  from 
afar, 

And  the  armies  of  nations  are 
gather’d  to  war  : 

With  the  blood  of  thy  children  his 
path  shall  be  red, 

And  the  bright  sun  of  conquest  shall 
blaze  o’er  his  head  ! 

Thou  glory  of  kingdoms  ! thy  princes 
are  drunk,2 

But  their  'loins  shall  be  loosed,  and 
their  hearts  shall  be  sunk  ; 

They  shall  crouch  to  the  dust,  and  be 
counted  as  slaves, 

At  the  roll  of  his  wheels,  like  the 
rushing  of  waves  ! 

1 “ Arise,  ye  princes,  and  anoint  the  shield. ” 

— Isaiah  xxi.,  5. 

2 “ I will  make  drunk  her  princes.”  — Jer- 
emiah li.,  57. 


For  I am  the  Lord,  who  have  mightily 
spann’d 

The  breadth  of  the  heavens,  and  the 
sea  and  the  land  ; 

And  the  mountains  shall  flow  at  my 
presence,1  and  earth 

Shall  reel  to  and  fro  in  the  glance  of 
my  wrath  ! 

Your  proud  domes  of  cedar  on  earth 
shall  be  thrown, 

And  the  rank  grass  shall  wave  o’er 
the  lonely  hearth-stone ; 

And  your  sons  and  your  sires  and 
your  daughters  shall  bleed 

By  the  barbarous  hands  of  the  mur- 
dering Mede ! 

I will  sweep  ye  away  in  destruction 
and  death, 

As  the  whirlwind  that  scatters  the 
chaff  with  its  breath  ; 

And  the  fanes  of  your  gods  shall  be 
sprinkled  with  gore, 

And  the  course  of  your  stream  shall 
be  heard  of  no  more  ! 2 

There  the  wandering  Arab  shall  ne’er 
pitch  his  tent, 

But  the  beasts  of  the  desert  shall  wail 
and  lament ; 

In  their  desolate  houses  the  dragons 
shall  lie, 

And  the  satyrs  shall  dance,  and  the 
bittern  shall  cry  ! 3 


“OH!  WERE  THIS  HEART  OF 
HARDEST  STEEL.” 

“ Yultus  nimiumlubricusaspici.” — Horace. 
Oh  ! were  this  heart  of  hardest  steel, 
That  steel  should  yield  to  thee  ; 
And  tho’  naught  else  could  make  it 
feel, 

1 “ The  mountains  melted  from  before  the 

Lord.”  — Judges  v.,  5.  “ Oh  that  the  moun- 

tains might  flow  down  at  thy  presence!  ” 
— Isaiah  lxiv.,  1;  and  again,  ver.  3,  “The 
mountains  flowed  down  at  thy  presence.” 

2 “ A drought  is  upon  her  watei’s.”  — Jer- 
emiah 1.,  38. 

3 Vide  Isaiah  xiii.,  20. 


THE  SLIGHTED  LOVER. 


S85 


’Twould  melt  thy  form  to  see : 

That  eye,  that  cheek,  that  lip,  possess 
Such  fascinating  loveliness ! 

The  first  may  claim  whatever  praise 
By  amorous  bard  is  paid  ; 

In  the  dark  lightning  of  its  rays 
I view  thy  soul  portray’d  : 

And  in  that  soul  what  light  must  be, 
When  it  imparts  so  bounteously  ! 

Thy  cheek,  e’en  in  its  humblest  bloom, 
Like  rich  carnation  glows  ; 

But  when  the  mantling  blushes  come, 
How  fades  the  brightest  rose  ! 

Dead  the  fine  hues,  the  beauty  dead, 
And  coarse  the  velvet  of  its  head. 

Th’  anemone’s  deep  crimson  dye 
Beams  on  thy  lip’s  red  charm  ; 

Thy  voice  is  more  than  harmony, 

Thy  breath  as  sweet  as  balm  : 

But  still  more  balmy  would  it  be, 
Would  it  but  waft  one  sigh  for  me. 

To  gaze  on  thee  is  ecstasy, 

Is  ecstasy  — but  pain  : 

Such  is  thy  lip,  thy  cheek,  thine  eye, 

I gaze,  and  gaze  again  : 

Oh ! might  those  three  bright  features 
bear 

For  me  a kiss  — a blush  — a tear  ! 
THE  SLIGHTED  LOVER. 

“ Spes  animi  credula  mutui.”  — Horace. 

I loved  a woman,  and  too  fondly 
thought 

The  vows  she  made  were  constant 
and  sincere ; 

But  now,  alas  ! in  agony  am  taught, 
That  she  is  faithless  — I no  longer 
dear ! 

Why  was  I frenzied  when  her  bright 
black  eye, 

With  ray  pernicious,  flash’d  upon 
my  gaze  ? 

Why  did  I burn  with  feverish  ecstasy, 
Stung  with  her  scorn,  and  ravish’d 
with  her  praise  1 


Would  that  her  loveliness  of  form 
and  mind 

Had  only  kindled  friendship's 
calmer  glow ! 

Then  had  I been  more  tranquil  and 
resign’d, 

And  her  neglect  had  never  touch’d 
me  so. 

But  with  such  peerless  charms  before 
his  sight, 

Who  would  not  own  resistless 
Love’s  control  1 

Feel  the  deep  thrilling  of  intense 
delight, 

And  lose  at  once  the  balance  of  his 
soul  ? 

Such  was  my  fate  — one  sole  enchant- 
ing hope, 

One  darling  object  from  all  else  I 
chose : 

That  hope  is  gone  — its  blighted  blos- 
soms droop  ; 

And  where  shall  hopeless  passion 
find  repose  1 


CEASE,  RAILER,  CEASE! 
UNTHINKING  MAN.” 

“ Cur  in  amicorum  vitiis  tam  cernis  acutum, 
Quam  aut  aquila,  aut  serpens  Epidaurius?  ” 
— Horace. 

Cease,  railer,  cease  ! unthinking  man, 
Is  every  virtue  found  in  thee  % 

How  plain  another’s  faults  we  scan, 
Our  own  how  faintly  do  we  see  ! 

So  one  who  roves  o’er  marshy  ground 
Wheneveningf  ogs  {he  scene  obscure, 
Sees  vapor  hang  on  all  things  round, 
And  falsely  deems  his  station  pure ! 

ANACREONTIC. 

“ Insanire  juvat.”  — Horace. 

Let  others  of  wealth  and  emolument 
dream, 

At  profits  exult,  and  at  losses  repine ; 


886 


SUNDAY  MOBS. 


Far  different  my  object,  far  different 
my  theme  — 

Warm  love  and  frank  friendship, 
and  roses  and  wine  ! 

Let  other  dull  clods,  without  fancy  or 
lire, 

Give  my  dear  friend  of  Teos  a mere 
poet’s  due ; 

Discarding  his  morals,  his  fancy 
admire, 

I deem  him  a bard,  and  a moralist 
too. 

Ye  sober,  ye  specious,  ye  sage,  ye 
discreet ! 

Your  joys  in  perspective  I never 
could  brook ; 

With  rapture  I seize  on  whatever  is 
sweet, 

Real,  positive,  present  — no  further 
I look. 

I will  not  be  fetter’d  by  maxims  or 
duties ; 

The  cold  charm  of  ethics  I wholly 
despise  : 

My  hours  glide  along  amid  bottles 
and  beauties  — 

There’s  nothing  to  match  with  old 
crust  and  bright  eyes  ! 

I vary  my  cups  as  his  fashions  the 
dandy, 

And  one  day  the  creatures  of  gin 
haunt  my  brain  ; 

And  the  next  I depute  the  same  office 
to  brandy ; 

And  so  on,  and  so  on,  and  the  same 
round  again ! 

I’m  a flighty  young  spark  — but  I 
deem"  myself  blest, 

And  as  happy  a soul  as  my  clerical 
brother ; 

Tho’  the  wish  of  a moment’s  first  half’s 
dispossest 

Of  its  sway  o’er  my  mind,  by  the 
wish  of  the  other. 

And  thou  who  this  wild  mode  of  living 
despisest, 


Sententious  and  grave,  of  thy  apoph- 
thegms boast, 

Cry  shame  of  my  nostrums  ; but  I 
know  who's  wisest, 

Makes  the  best  use  of  life,  and  en- 
joys it  the  most. 


“IN  WINTER’S  DULL  AND 
CHEERLESS  REIGN.” 

“ Deme  supercilio  nubem.”  — Horace. 

In  winter’s  dull  and  cheerless  reign. 
What  flower  could  ever  glow  ? 
Beneath  the  ice  of  thy  disdain, 
What  song  could  ever  flow  1 

Restore  thy  smile ! — beneath  its  ray 
The  flower  of  verse  shall  rise ; 
And  all  the  ice  that  froze  my  lay 
Be  melted  by  thine  eyes  ! 


SUNDAY  MOBS. 

Tho’  we  at  times  amid  the  mob  may 
find 

A beauteous  face,  with  many  a charm 
combined ; 

Yet  still  it  wants  the  signature  of 
mind. 

On  such  a face  no  fine  expression 
dwells, 

That  eye  no  inborn  dignity  reveals  ; 

Tho’  bright  its  jetty  orb,  as  all  may 
see, 

The  glance  is  vacant  — has  no  charms 
for  me. 

When  Sunday’s  sun  is  sinking  in  the 
west, 

Our  streets  all  swarm  with  numbers 
gayly  drest ; 

Prank’d  out  in  ribbons,  and  in  silks 
array’d, 

To  catch  the  eyes  of  passing  sons  of 
trade. 

Then  giggling  milliners  swim  pertly  by, 

Obliquely  glancing  with  a roguish  eye; 

With  short  and  airy  gait  they  trip 
along, 


PHRENOLOGY. 


887 


And  vulgar  volubility  of  tongue ; 

Their  minds  well  pictured  in  their  every 
tread, 

And  that  slight  backward  tossing  of 
the  head  : 

But  no  idea,  'faith,  that  harbors  there, 

Is  independent  of  a stomacher. 

Their  metaphors  from  gowns  and  caps 
are  sought, 

And  stays  incorporate  with  every 
thought : 

And  if  in  passing  them  I can  but  spare 

A moment’s  glance — far  better  thrown 
elsewhere  — 

They  deem  my  admiration  caught, 
nor  wist 

They  turn  it  on  an  ancient  fabulist, 

Who  aptly  pictured,  in  the  jackdaw’s 
theft, 

These  pert  aspirers  of  their  wits  bereft. 

To  these,  as  well  as  any  under  heaven, 

A well-formed  set  of  features  may  be 
given : 

But  where’s  the  halo  ? where’s  the  spell 
divine  ? 

And  the  sweet,  modest,  captivating 
mien  ? 

“Those  tenderer  tints  that  shun  the 
careless  eye,” 

Where  are  they  ? — far  from  these 
low  groups  they  fly  : 

Yes,  far  indeed!  — for  here  you  can- 
not trace 

The  flash  of  intellect  along  the  face  ; 

No  vermeil  blush  e’er  spreads  its 
lovely  dye, 

Herald  of  genuine  sensibility. 

These  extras,  e’en  in  beauty’s  absence, 
a charm  ; 

But  when  combined  with  beauty,  how 
they  warm  ! 

These  are  the  charms  that  will  not  be 
withstood, 

Sure  signs  of  generous  birth  and  gen- 
tle blood. 

There  is  a something  I cannot  describe, 

Beyond  th’  all-gaining  influence  of  a 
bribe, 

Which  stamps  the  lady  in  the  mean- 
est rout, 

And  by  its  sure  criterion  marks  her 
out; 


Pervades  each  feature,  thro’  each  ac- 
tion flows, 

And  lends  a charm  to  every  thing  she 
does ; 

Which  not  the  weeds  of  Irus  could 
disguise, 

And  soon  detected  wheresoe’er  it  lies. 


PHRENOLOGY. 

“ Quorsum  haec  tam  putida  tendunt  ?” 

— Horace. 

A curious  sect’s  in  vogue,  who  deem 
the  soul 

Of  man  is  legible  upon  his  poll  : 

Give  them  a squint  at  yonder  doctor’s 
pate, 

And  they’ll  soon  tell  you  why  he 
dines  on  plate  : 

Ask  why  yon  bustling  statesman,  who 
for  years 

Has  pour’d  his  speeches  in  the  sen- 
ate’s ears, 

Tho’  always  in  a politician’s  sweat, 

Has  hardly  grasp’d  the  seals  of  office 
yet  ? 

The  problem  gravels  me  — the  man’s 
possest 

Of  talents  — this  his  many  schemes 
attest. 

The  drawback,  what?  — they  tell  me, 
looking  big, 

“His  skull  was  never  moulded  for  in- 
trigue.” 

Whene’er  a culprit  has  consign’d  his 
breath, 

And  proved  the  Scripture  adage  — 
death  for  death, 

With  peering  eyes  the  zealous  throng 
appear, 

To  see  if  murder  juts  behind  his  ear. 

So  far ’tis  barely  plausible  — but  stay  ! 

I ne’er  can  muster  brass  enough  to  say 

That  a rude  lump,  or  bunch  too  prom- 
inent, 

Is  a bad  symbol  of  a vicious  bent. 

But  when  the  sages  strike  another  key, 

Consorting  things  that  never  will 
agree, 

And  my  consistency  of  conduct  rate 


PHRENOLOGY. 


By  inequalities  upon  my  pate  1 

And  make  an  inharmonious  bump  the 
test 

Of  my  delight  in  concord2  — ’tis  at 
best 

An  awkward  system,  and  not  over- 
wise,  { 

And  badly  built  on  incoherencies. 

Another  lustrum  will  behold  our 
youth, 

With  eager  souls  all  panting  after 
truth, 

Shrewd  Spurzheim’s  visionary  pages 
turn, 

And,  with  Napoleon’s  bust  before 
them,  learn 

Without  the  agency  of  what  small 
bone 

Quicklime  had  ne’er  upon  a host  been 
thrown  : 

In  what  rough  rise  a trivial  sink  had 
saved 

The  towns  he  burnt,  the  nations  he 
enslaved.3 

E’en  now,  when  Harold’s  minstrel  left 
the  scene, 

Where  such  a brilliant  meteor  he  had 
been, 

Thus  with  the  same  officiousness  of 
pains, 

Gazettes  announced  the  volume  of 
his  brains. 

Rise,  sons  of  Science  and  Invention, 
rise  ! 

Make  some  new  inroad  on  the  starry 
skies  ; 

Draw  from  the  main  some  truths  un- 
known before, 

Rummage  the  strata,  every  nook  ex- 
plore, 

To  lead  mankind  from  this  fantastic 
lore ; 

Solve  the  long-doubted  problems 
pending  still, 

And  these  few  blanks  in  nature’s  an- 
nals fill : 

irThe  bump  of  firmness. 

2 The  bump  of  tune. 

3 The  Corsican’s  organ  of  destructiveness 

must  have  been  very  px*ominent. 


Tell  us  why  Saturn  rolls  begirt  with 
flame  ? 

Whence  the  red  depth  of  Mars’s  as- 
pect came  1 

Are  the  dark  tracts  the  silver  moon 
displays 

Dusk  with  the  gloom  of  caverns  or  of 
seas  ? 

Think  ye,  with  Gibers,  that  her  glow 
intense, 

Erst  deem’d  volcanic,  is  reflected 
hence  ? 

Are  the  black  spots,  which  in  yon  sun 
appear 

Long  vistas  thro’  his  flaming  atmos- 
phere, 

Rents  in  his  fiery  robe,  thro’  which  the 
eye 

Gains  access  to  his  secret  sanctuary ? 

Or  may  we  that  hypothesis  explode, 

Led  by  your  science  nearer  to  our  God? 

Shall  we,  with  Glasgow’s  learned 
Watt,  maintain 

That  yon  bright  bow  is  not  produced 
by  rain  ? 

Or  deem  the  theory  but  ill  surmised, 

And  call  it  light  (as  Brewster)  polar- 
ized ? 

Tell  when  the  clouds  their  fleecy  load 
resign, 

How  the  frail  nitre-moulded  points 
combine ; 

What  secret  cause,  when  heaven  and 
ocean  greet, 

Commands  their  close,  or  dictates 
their  retreat.1 

On  you  we  rest,  to  check  th’  encroach- 
ing sway 

This  outre  science  gains  from  day  to 
day ; 

Investigation’s  blood-hound  scent  em- 
ploy 

On  themes  more  worthy  of  our  scru- 
tiny ; 

Rob  this  attractive  magnet  of  its 
force, 

And  check  this  torrent’s  inundating 
course. 

1 The  waterspout. 


LOVE. 


889 


LOVE. 


Almighty  Love ! whose  nameless 
pow’r 

This  glowing  heart  defines  too  well, 
Whose  presence  cheers  each  fleeting 
hour, 

Whose  silken  bonds  our  souls  com- 
pel, 

Diffusing  such  a sainted  spell, 

As  gilds  our  being  with  the  light 
Of  transport  and  of  rapturous 
bliss, 

And  almost  seeming  to  unite 

The  joys  of  other  worlds  to  this, 
The  heavenly  smile,  the  rosy 
kiss ; — 

Before  whose  blaze  my  spirits  shrink, 
My  senses  all  are  wrapt  in  thee, 
Thy  force  I own  too  much,  to  think 
(So  full,  so  great  thine  ecstasy) 
That  thou  art  less  than  deity ! 

Thy  golden  chains  embrace  the  land, 
The  starry  sky,  the  dark  blue  main; 
And  at  the  voice  of  thy  command 
(So  vast,  so  boundless  is  thy  reign) 
All  nature  springs  to  life  again ! 

ii. 

The  glittering  fly,  the  wondrous 
things 

That  microscopic  art  descries ; 

The  lion  of  the  waste,  which  springs, 
Bounding  upon  his  enemies ; 

The  mighty  sea-snake  of  the  storm, 
The  vorticella’s  viewless  form,1 

The  vast  leviathan,  which  takes 
His  pastime  in  the  sounding 
floods ; 

The  crafty  elephant,  which  makes 
His  haunts  in  Ceylon’s  spicy 
woods  — 

Alike  confess  thy  magic  sway, 

Thy  soul-enchanting  voice  obey  ! 

1 See  Baker  on  animalculae. 


Oh ! whether  thou,  as  bards  have 
said, 

Of  bliss  or  pain  the  partial  giver, 

Wingest  thy  shaft  of  pleasing  dread 

From  out  thy  well-stored  golden 
quiver, 

O’er  earth  thy  cherub  wings  extend- 
ing, 

Thy  sea-born  mother’s  side  attend- 
ing;— 

Or  else,  as  Indian  fables  say, 

Upon  thine  emerald  lory  riding, 

Through  gardens,  ’mid  the  restless 
play 

Of  fountains,  in  the  moonbeam 
gliding, 

’Mid  sylph-like  shapes  of  maidens 
dancing, 

Thy  scarlet  standard  high  advanc- 
ing ; — 

Thy  fragrant  bow  of  cane  thou  bend- 
est,1 

Twanging  the  string  of  honey’d 
bees, 

And  thence  the  flower-tipp’d  arrow 
sendest, 

Which  gives  or  robs  the  heart  of 
ease ; 

Camdeo,  or  Cupid,  oh  be  near 

To  listen,  and  to  grant  my  prayer ! 


TO . 

The  dew  that  sits  upon  the  rose 
The  brilliant  hue  beneath  it  shows ; 
Nor  can  it  hide  the  velvet  dye 
O’er  which  it  glitters  tremblingly. 

The  fine-wove  veil  thrown  o’er  thy 
face, 

Betrays  its  bloom  — thro’  it  we  trace 
A loveliness,  tho’  veil’d,  reveal’d, 

Too  bright  to  be  by  ought  conceal’d. 

1See  Sir  William  Jones’s  works,  vol.  vi., 
p.  313. 

“ He  bends  the  luscious  cane,  and  twists  the 
string ; 

With  bees  how  sweet,  but  ah ! how  keen  the 
sting! 

He  with  five  flowrets  tips  thy  ruthless  darts, 
Which  thro’  five  senses  pierce  enraptured 
hearts.” 


S90 


IMA  GINA  TION. 


SONG. 

To  sit  beside  a crystal  spring, 

Cool’d  by  the  passing  zephyr’s  wing, 
And  bend  my  every  thought  to  thee, 
Is  life,  is  bliss,  is  ecstasy ! 

And  as  within  that  spring  I trace 
Each  line,  each  feature  of  my  face ; 
The  faithful  mirror  tells  me  true  — 

It  tells  me  that  I think  of  you ! 


IMAGINATION. 

Perennial  source  of  rapturous  pleas- 
ure, hail ! 

Whose  inexhaustive  stores  can  never 
fail; 

Thou  ardent  inmate  of  the  poet’s 
brain, 

Bright  as  the  sun  and  restless  as  the 
main, 

From  all  material  Nature’s  stores  at 
will 

Creating,  blending,  and  arranging 
still ; 

Things  in  themselves  both  beautiful 
and  grand, 

Receive  fresh  lustre  from  thy  kindling 
hand ; 

And  even  those  whose  abstract  charms 
are  few, 

Thy  spell-like  touch  arrays  in  colors 
bright  and  new. 

Oh  ! thou  art  Poetry’s  informing  soul, 

Detach’d  from  thee  she  stagnates  and 
is  dull ; 

She  has  no  sweets  without  thee,  and 
from  thee 

Derives  her  magic  and  her  majesty; 

Thou  art  th’  essential  adjunct  of  her 
charms, 

’Tis  by  thy  aid  that  she  transports 
and  warms  : 

Nor  will  I e’er  with  that  weak  sect 
concur, 

Who  on  obscurity  alone  confer 

Thy  misapplied  and  prostituted 
name  — 


A false  and  spurious  and  ungrounded 
claim ! — 

Construct  a mass  of  thoughts  uncouth 
and  wild, 

Their  words  involved,  and  meaning 
quite  exiled ; 

A mazy  labyrinth  without  a clue, 

Wherein  they  lose  themselves  and 
readers  too  ; 

The  crude  abortions  of  a heated 
brain, 

Where  sense  and  symmetry  are  sought 
in  vain ! 

But  images  both  bright  and  sorted 
well, 

And  perspicuity,  that  crowning  spell, 

Fervor  chastised  by  judgment  and  by 
taste, 

And  language  vivid,  elegant,  and 
chaste  — 

These  form  the  poet;  in  such  garb 
array’d, 

Then,  Fancy,  all  thy  beauties  are  dis- 
play’d ; 

We  feel  thy  loveliness  and  own  thy 
sway, 

Confess  thy  magic  pow’r,  and  praise 
the  glowing  lay ! 


THE  OAK  OF  THE  NORTH. 

“ Quae  quantum  vertice  ad  auras 
ACthereas,  tantum  radice  in  Tartara  tendit, 
Ergo  non  hyemes  illam,  non  flabra,  neque 
hnbres 

Convellunt;  immota  manet,  multosque  ne- 
potes 

Multa  virum  volens  durando  saecula  vincit.” 
— Virgil. 

Thou  forest  lord ! whose  deathless 
arms 

Full  many  an  age  of  rolling  time 
Have  mock’d  the  madness  of  the 
storms, 

Unfaded  in  thy  shadowy  prime 
Thou  livest  still  — and  still  shalt  stay, 
Tho’  the  destroying  tyrant  bow 
The  temple,  and  the  tower,  and  lay 
The  pomp  and  pride  of  empires  low. 
And  if  thy  stately  form  be  riven 
And  blasted  by  the  fiery  levin, 

Still  dost  thou  give  that  giant  front, 


THE  OAK  OF  THE  NORTH 


891 


Undaunted,  to  the  pitiless  brunt 
Of  angry  winds,  that  vainly  rave  ; 
And,  like  the  scars  by  battle  graven 
Upon  the  bosoms  of  the  brave, 

The  tokens  of  resistless  heaven 

Deep  in  thy  rugged  breast  are  seen, 
The  marks  of  frays  that  once  have 
been  ; 

The  lightning’s  stroke,  the  whirl- 
Avind’s  force, 

Have  marr’d  thee  in  their  furious 
course, 

But  they  have  left  thee  unsubdued ; 

And  if  they  bend  thy  crest  aAvhile, 
Thou  dost  arise  in  might  renew’d. 
Tameless  in  undiminish’d  toil, 
Singly  against  an  hostile  host 

Contending,  like  th’  immortal  king, 
Who  quell’d  the  Titans’  impious  boast 
With  thunder,  tho’  he  stood  alone 
Defender  of  his  starry  throne, 
Dashing  th’  aspiring  mountains 
down, 

Dark  Ossa,  like  a powerless  thing, 
And  Pelion  with  his  nodding  pines ; 

Thenbound  with  adamantine  chains, 
Where  the  glad  sunlight  never  shines, 
The  earth-born  in  eternal  pains. 

Of  many  who  were  born  with  thee, 
Scarce  now  a thought  survives  to 
tell ; 

War  hath  ta’en  some  — their  memory 
But  faintly  lives  of  those  who  fell : 
Even  the  conqueror’s  glorious  name, 
That  boasts  a life  beyond  the  tomb, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  rushing  fame, 
May  bow  before  the  common  doom, 
Before  the  measure  of  its  praise 
Hath  filled  thy  multitude  of  days. 

And  ere  the  poet’s  hallow’d  star, 
Refulgent  o’er  his  voiceless  urn, 
Glance  thro’  the  gloom  of  years  so  far, 
Its  living  fires  may  cease  to  burn. 
Thy  mere  existence  shall  be  more 
Than  others’  immortality ; 

The  spirits  of  the  great,  who  bore 
A sway  on  earth,  and  still  would  be 
Remember’d  when  they  are  not  seen, 
Shall  die  like  echoes  on  the  wind, 
Nor  leave  of  all  that  they  have  been 
In  living  hearts  one  thrill  behind ; 


Their  very  names  shall  be  forgot, 
Ancient  of  days ! ere  thou  art  not. 

The  druid’s  mystic  harp,  that  hung 
So  long  upon  thy  stormy  boughs, 
Mute  as  its  master’s  magic  tongue, 
Who  slumbereth  in  that  deep  re- 
pose, 

No  earthly  sound  shall  wake  again, 
Nor  glare  of  sacrificial  fire, 

Nor  howl  of  victims  in  their  pain, 

Or  the  weird  priestess  in  her  ire, 
Hath  mingled  with  th’  oblivious  dust 
Of  him  who  called  its  spirit  forth, 
In  those  prophetic  tones  which  hush’d 
The  enraptured  children  of  the 
north, 

Binding  them  Avith  a holy  fear, 

And  smiting  each  enchanted  ear 
With  such  a sound  as  seem’d  to  raise 
The  hidden  forms  of  future  days  : 
Sleep  on  ! — no  Roman  foe  alarms 
Your  rest ; and  over  ye  shall  wave 
A guardian  God’s  protecting  arms, 
And  flowers  shall  deck  your  grassy 
grave  ! 

And  he  who  gazeth  on  thee  now, 

Ere  long  shall  lie  as  low  as  they ; 
The  daring  heart,  the  intrepid  brow, 
Not  long  can  feel  youth’s  joyous  glow. 
The  strength  of  life  must  soon 
decay. 

A few  short  years  fleet  swiftly  by, 
And  rayless  is  the  sparkling  eye, 

Mute  the  stern  voice  of  high  com- 
mand, 

And  still  oppression’s  iron  hand  ; 

The  lords  of  earth  shall  waste  away 
Beneath  the  worm,  and  many  a day 
Of  wintry  frost  and  summer  sun, 

Ere  yet  thy  number’d  hours  be  done  ; 
For  thou  art  green  and  flourishing, 
The  mountain-forest’s  stately  king, 
Unshaken  as  the  granite  stone 
That  stands  thine  everlasting  throne. 

There  Avas  a tower,  whose  haughty 
head 

Erewhile  rose  darkly  by  thy  side, 
But  they  are  number’d  with  the  dead, 


892 


THE  OAK  OF  THE  NORTH. 


Who  ruled  within  its  place  of  pride ; 
For  time  and  overwhelming  war 
Have  crumbled  it,  and  overthrown 
Bulwark,  and  battlement,  and  bar, 
Column,  and  arch,  and  sculptured 
stone  ; 

Around  thy  base  are  rudely  strewn 
The  tokens  of  departed  power, 

The  wrecks  of  unrecorded  fame 
Lie  mouldering  in  the  frequent 
shower : 

But  thou  art  there,  the  very  same 
As  when  those  hearts,  which  now  are 
cold, 

First  beat  in  triumph  to  behold 
The  shadow  of  its  form,  which  fell 
At  distance  o’er  the  darken’d  dell. 

No  more  the  battle’s  black  array 
Shall  sternly  meet  the  rising  day  ; 

No  beacon-fires  disastrous  light 
Flame  fiercely  in  the  perilous  night. 
Forgotten  is  that  fortress  now, 
Deserted  is  the  feudal  hall, 

But  here  and  there  the  red  flowers 
blow 

Upon  its  bare  and  broken  wall. 

And  ye  may  hear  the  night-wind  moan 
Thro’  shatter’d  hearths  with  moss 
o’ergrown, 

Wild  grasses  wave  above  the  gate  ; 
And  where  the  trumpets  sung  at  morn, 
The  tuneless  night-bird  dwells  forlorn, 
And  the  unanswer’d  ravens  prate, 
Till  silence  is  more  desolate. 

For  thou  hast  heard  the  clarion’s 
breath 

Pour  from  thy  heights  its  blast  of 
death, 

While  gathering  multitudes  replied 
Defiance  with  a shout  that  hurl’d 
Back  on  their  foes  the  curse  of  pride, 
And  bended  bows,  and  flags  un- 
furl’d ; 

And  swiftly  from  the  hollow  vale 
Their  arrowy  vengeance  glanced,  like 
hail, 

What  time  some  fearless  son  of  war, 
Emerging  to  the  upper  air, 

Gain’d  the  arm’d  steep’s  embattled 
brows, 

Thro’  angry  swords  around  him 
waving, 


’Mid  the  leagued  thousands  of  his 
foes, 

Their  fury  like  a lion  braving : 

And  faster  than  the  summer  rain 
Stream’d  forth  the  life-blood  of  the 
slain, 

Whom  civil  hate  and  feudal  power 
Mingled  in  that  tempestuous  hour, 
Steeping  thy  sinewy  roots,  that  drew 
Fresh  vigor  from  that  deadly  dew, 
And  still  shall  live  — tho’  monarchs 
fail; 

And  those  who  waged  the  battle 
then 

Are  made  the  marvel  Of  a tale, 

To  warm  the  hearts  of  future  men. 
On  such  a heart  did  Cambria  gaze, 
When  Freedom  on  that  dismal  day 
Saw  Edward’s  haughty  banners  blaze 
Triumphant,  and  the  dread  array 
In  the  deep  vales  beneath  her  gleam, 
Then  started  from  her  ancient 
throne, 

That  mighty  song  could  not  redeem 
From  ruthless  hands  and  hearts  of 
stone. 

While  ages  yield  their  fleeting  breath, 
Art  thou  the  only  living  thing 
On  earth,  which  all-consuming  death 
Blasts  not  with  his  destroying  wing  ? 
No ! thou  shalt  die  ! — tho’  gloriously 
Those  proud  arms  beat  the  azure 
air, 

Some  hour  in  Time’s  dark  womb  shall 

see 

The  strength  they  boast  no  longer 
there. 

Tho’  to  thy  life,  as  to  thy  God’s, 
Unnumber’d  years  are  as  a day, 
When  He,  who  is  eternal,  nods, 

Thy  mortal  strength  must  pass 
away. 

Unconquer’d  Fate,  with  viewless  hand, 
Hath  mark’d  the  moment  of  thy 
doom, 

For  He,  who  could  create,  hath 
spann’d 

Thy  being,  and  its  hour  shall  come  : 
Some  thunderbolt  more  dread  than 
all 

That  ever  scathed  thee  with  their 
fire, 


EXHORTATION  TO  THE  GREEKS. 


893 


Arm’d  with  the  force  of  heaven,  shall 
fall 

Upon  thee,  and  thou  shalt  expire  ! 
Or  age,  that  curbs  a giant’s  might, 
Shall  bow  thee  down  and  fade  thy 
bloom, 

The  last  of  all,  the  bitterest  blight 
That  chills  our  hearts,  except  the 
tomb. 

And  then  thou  canst  but  faintly  strive 
Against  the  foes  thou  hast  defied, 
Returning  spring  shall  not  revive 
The  beauty  of  thy  summer  pride ; 
And  the  green  earth  no  more  shall 
sleep 

Beneath  thy  dark  and  stilly  shade, 
Where  silvery  dews  were  wont  to  weep, 
And  the  red  day-beam  never  stray’d, 
But  flow’rets  of  the  tenderest  hue, 
That  live  not  in  the  garish  noon, 
Pale  violets  of  a heavenly  blue, 
Unfaded  by  the  sultry  sun, 
Unwearied  by  the  blasts  that  shook 
Thy  lofty  head,  securely  throve, 
Nor  heeded  in  that  grassy  nook 
The  ceaseless  wars  that  raged  above. 
The  revelling  elves  at  noon  of  night 
Shall  throng  no  more  beneath  thy 
boughs, 

When  moonbeams  shed  a solemn  light, 
And  every  star  intensely  glows  ; 

No  verdant  canopy  shall  screen 
From  view  the  orgies  of  their  race, 
But  the  blue  heaven’s  unclouded 
sheen 

Shall  pierce  their  secret  dwelling- 
place. 

Tho’  now  the  lavrock  pours  at  morn, 
Shrined  in  thy  leaves,  his  rapturous 
lay, 

Then,  shall  the  meanest  songster  scorn 
To  hail  thee,  as  he  wings  his  way. 
The  troubled  eagle,  when  he  flies 
Before  the  lightnings,  and  the  wrath 
Of  gathering  winds  and  stormy  skies, 
That  darken  o’er  his  cloudy  path, 
With  ruffled  breast  and  angry  eye 
Shall  pass  thee,  and  descend  in 
haste 

Amid  the  sheltering  bowers  that  lie 
Far  down  beneath  the  rolling  blast. 
Thine  awful  voice,  that  swells  on  high 


Above  the  rushing  of  the  north, 
Above  the  thunders  of  the  sky, 

When  midnight  hurricanes  come 
forth, 

Like  some  fall’n  conqueror’s,  who  be- 
wails 

His  laurels  torn,  his  humbled  fame, 
Shall  murmur  to  the  passing  gales 
At  once  thy  glory  and  thy  shame ! 


EXHORTATION  TO  THE 
GREEKS. 

“ En  ilia,  ilia  quam  saepe  optastis,  libertas!  ” 
— Sallust. 

Arouse  thee,  O Greece ! and  remem- 
ber the  day, 

When  the  millions  of  Xerxes  were 
quell’d  on  their  way  ! 

Arouse  thee,  O Greece ! let  the  pride 
of  thy  name 

Awake  in  thy  bosom  the  light  of  thy 
fame  ! 

Why  hast  thou  shone  in  the  temple  of 
glory  ? 

Why  hast  thou  blazed  in  those 
annals  of  fame  ? 

For  know  that  the  former  bright  page 
of  thy  story 

Proclaims  but  thy  bondage  and  tells 
but  thy  shame : 

Proclaims  from  how  high  thou  art 
fallen ! — how  low 

Thou  art  plunged  in  the  dark  gulf  of 
thraldom  and  woe  ! 

Arouse  thee,  O Greece ! from  the 
weight  of  thy  slumbers ! 

The  chains  are  upon  thee  ! — arise 
from  thy  sleep  ! 

Remember  the  time,  when  nor  nations 
nor  numbers 

Could  break  thy  thick  phalanx  em- 
bodied and  deep. 

Old  Athens  and  Sparta  remember  the 
morning, 

When  the  swords  of  the  Grecians 
were  red  to  the  hilt : 

And,  the  bright  gem  of  conquest  her 
chaplet  adorning, 

Plataea  rejoiced  at  the  blood  that  ye 
spilt ! 


894 


KING  CHARLES'S  VISION. 


Remember  the  night,  when,  in  shrieks 
of  affright, 

The  fleets  of  the  East  in  your  ocean 
were  sunk: 

Remember  each  day,  when,  in  battle 
array, 

From  the  fountain  of  glory  how 
largely  ye  drunk ! 

For  there  is  not  ought  that  a freeman 
can  fear, 

As  the  fetters  of  insult,  the  name 
of  a slave ; 

And  there  is  not  a voice  to  a nation 
so  dear, 

As  the  war-song  of  freedom  that 
calls  on  the  brave. 


KING  CHARLES’S  VISION. 

A vision  somewhat  resembling  the  follow- 
ing, and  prophetic  of  the  Northern  Alexander, 
is  said  to  have  been  witnessed  by  Charles  XI. 
of  Sweden,  the  antagonist  of  Sigismund. 
The  reader  will  exclaim,  “ Credat  Judaeus 
Apella ! ” 

King  Charles  was  sitting  all  alone, 
In  his  lonely  palace-tower, 

When  there  came  on  his  ears  a heavy 
groan 

At  the  silent  midnight  hour. 

He  turn’d  him  round  where  he  heard 
the  sound, 

But  nothing  might  he  see ; 

And  he  only  heard  the  nightly  bird 
That  shriek’d  right  fearfully. 

He  turn’d  him  round  where  he  heard 
the  sound, 

To  his  casement’s  arched  frame  : 

“ And  he  was  aware  of  a light  that 
was  there,”1 

But  he  wist  not  whence  it  came. 

He  looked  forth  into  the  night, 

’Twas  calm  as  night  might  be  ; 

But  broad  and  bright  the  flashing  light 
Stream’d  red  and  radiantly. 

1 “ And  he  was  aware  of  a Gray-friar.” 

— The  Gray  Brother. 

“ And  he  was  aware  of  a knight  that  was 
there.”  — The  Baron  of  Smalhome. 


From  ivory  sheath  his  trusty  brand 
Of  stalwart  steel  he  drew; 

And  he  raised  the  lamp  in  his  better 
hand. 

But  its  flame  was  dim  and  blue. 

And  he  open’d  the  door  of  that  palace- 
tower, 

But  harsh  turn’d  the  jarring  key  : 

“ By  the  Virgin’s  might,”  cried  the 
king  that  night, 

“All  is  not  as  it  should  be  ! ” 

Slow  turn’d  the  door  of  the  crazy 
tower, 

And  slowly  again  did  it  close ; 

And  within  and  without,  and  all  about, 
A sound  of  voices  rose. 

The  king  he  stood  in  dreamy  mood, 
For  the  voices  his  name  did  call ; 

Then  on  he  past,  till  lie  came  at  last 
To  the  pillar’d  audience-hall. 

Eight-and-forty  columns  wide, 

Many  and  carved  and  tall 

(Four-and-twenty  on  each  side), 

Stand  in  that  lordly  hall. 

The  king  had  been  pight1  in  the  mor- 
tal fight, 

And  struck  the  deadly  blow ; 

The  king  he  had  strode  in  the  red  red 
blood, 

Often,  afore,  and  now  : 

Yet  his  heart  had  ne’er  been  so  har- 
row’d with  fear 
As  it  was  this  fearful  hour; 

For  his  eyes  were  not  dry,  and  his  hair 
stood  on  high, 

And  his  soul  had  lost  its  power. 

For  a blue  livid  flame,  round  the  hall 
where  he  came, 

In  fiery  circles  ran  ; 

And  sounds  of  death,  and  chattering 
teeth, 

And  gibbering  tongues  began. 

1 “ A hideous  rock  is  pight 
Of  mighty  magnes-stone.”  — Spenser. 

“You  vile  abominable  tents, 

Thus  proudly  pight  upon  our  Phrygian 
plains ! ” — Suakspeare. 


KING  CHARLES'S  VISION 


895 


He  saw  four-and-twenty  statesmen 
old 

Round  a lofty  table  sit ; 

And  each  in  his  hand  did  a volume 
hold, 

Wherein  mighty  things  were  writ. 

In  burning  steel  were  their  limbs  all 
cased ; 

On  their  cheeks  was  the  flush  of  ire : 
Their  armor  was  braced,  and  their 
helmets  were  laced, 

And  their  hollow  eyes  darted  fire. 

With  sceptre  of  might,  and  with  gold 
crown  bright, 

And  locks  like  the  raven’s  wing, 
And  in  regal  state  at  that  board  there 
sat 

The  likeness  of  a king. 

With  crimson  tinged,  and  with  ermine 
fringed, 

And  with  jewels  spangled  o’er, 

And  rich  as  the  beam  of  the  sun  on 
the  stream, 

A sparkling  robe  he  wore.1 

1 This  is,  perhaps,  an  unpardonable  false- 
hood, since  it  is  well  known  that  Charles  was 
so  great  an  enemy  to  finery  as  even  to  object 
to  the  appearance  of  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough on  that  account.  Let  those  readers, 
therefore,  whose  critical  nicety  this  passage 
offends  substitute  the  following  stanza,  which 
is  “ the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth : ” 

With  buttons  of  brass  that  glitter’d  like 
glass, 

And  brows  that  were  crown’d  with  bays, 
With  large  blue  coat,  and  with  black  jack- 
boot, 

The  theme  of  his  constant  praise. 

Nothing  indeed  could  exceed  Charles’s 
affection  for  his  boots:  he  eat,  drank,  and 
slept  in  them  : nay,  he  never  went  on  a boot- 
less errand.  When  the  dethroned  monarch 
Augustus  waited  upon  him  with  proposals  of 
peace,  Charles  entertained  him  with  a long 
dissertion  on  his  unparalleled  aforesaid  jack- 
boots : he  even  went  so  far  as  to  threaten 
(according  to  Voltaire),  in  an  authoritative 
epistle  to  the  Senate  at  Stockholm,  that  unless 
they  proved  less  refractory,  he  would  send 
them  one  of  his  boots  as  regent!  Now  this, 
we  must  allow,  was  a step  beyond  Caligula’s 
consul. 


Yet  though  fair  shone  the  gem  on  his 
proud  diadem, 

Though  his  robe  was  jewell’d  o’er, 

Though  brilliant  the  vest  on  his  mailed 
breast, 

Yet  they  all  were  stain’d  with 
gore  ! 

And  his  eye  darted  ire,  and  his  glance 
shot  fire, 

And.  his  look  was  high  command  ; 

And  each,  when  he  spoke,  struck  his 
mighty  book, 

And  raised  his  shadowy  hand. 

And  a headman  stood  by,  with  his  axe 
on  high, 

And  quick  was  his  ceaseless  stroke  ; 

And  loud  was  the  shock  on  the  echo- 
ing block, 

As  the  steel  shook  the  solid  oak. 

While  short  and  thick  came  the 
mingled  shriek 

Of  the  wretches  who  died  by  his 
blow ; 

And  fast  fell  each  head  on  the  pave- 
ment red, 

And  warm  did  the  life-blood  flow. 

Said  the  earthly  king  to  the  ghostly 
king, 

“ What  fearful  sights  are  those  ?•  ” 

Said  the  ghostly  king  to  the  earthly 
king, 

“ They  are  signs  of  future  woes  ! ” 


Said  the  earthly  king  to  the  ghostly 
king, 

“ By  St.  Peter,  who  art  thou  ? ” 

Said  the  ghostly  king  to  the  earthly 
king, 

“ I shall  be,  but  I am  not  now.” 

Said  the  earthly  king  to  the  ghostly 
king, 

“ But  when  will  thy  time  draw 
nigh  ? ” 

“ Oh ! the  sixth  after  thee  will  a war- 
rior be, 

And  that  warrior  am  I. 


S96 


KING  CHARLES'S  VISION. 


“ And  the  lords  of  the  earth  shall  be 
pale  at  my  birth, 

And  conquest  shall  hover  o’er  me  ; 

And  the  kingdoms  shall  shake,  and 
the  nations  shall  quake, 

And  the  thrones  fall  down  before 
me. 

“ And  Cracow  shall  bend  to  my  maj- 
esty, 

And  the  haughty  Dane  shall  bow; 

And  the  Pole  shall  fly  from  my  pierc- 
ing eye, 

And  the  scowl  of  my  clouded 
brow. 

“ And  around  my  way  shall  the  hot 
balls  play, 

And  the  red-tongued  flames  arise  ; 

And  my  pathway  shall  be  on  the  mid- 
night sea, 

’Neath  the  frown  of  the  wintry 
skies. 

“ Thro’  narrow  pass,  over  dark  mo- 
rass, 

And  the  waste  of  the  weary  plain, 


Over  ice  and  snow,  where  the  dark 
streams  flow, 

Tliro’  the  woods  of  the  wild  Uk- 
raine. 

“ And  though  sad  be  the  close  of  my 
life  and  my  woes, 

And  the  hand  that  shall  slay  me 
unshown ; 

Yet  in  every  clime,  thro’  the  lapse  of 
all  time, 

Shall  my  glorious  conquests  be 
known. 

“ And  blood  shall  be  shed,  and  the 
earth  shall  be  red 

With  the  gore  of  misery  ; 

And  swift  as  this  flame  shall  the  light 
of  my  fame 

O’er  the  world  as  brightly  fly.” 

As  the  monarch  spoke,  crew  the  morn- 
ing cock, 

When  all  that  pageant  bright, 

And  the  glitter  of  gold,  and  the  states- 
men old, 

Fled  into  the  gloom  of  night ! 


